


Thank You For Calling

by MarleyMortis, The_She_Devil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Makes a Podcast, Cancer, Long term illness, M/M, Retail Therapy, Salty Bucky, Shrunkyclunks, Shrunkyclunks Big Bang 2018, Superhuman Disaster Insurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_She_Devil/pseuds/The_She_Devil
Summary: "Thank you for calling Superhuman Disaster Insurance; this is Bucky Barnes speaking.  How can I help you?"Wherein Bucky Barnes, frustrated millennial, helps clean up after messes made by superhumans, stumbles upon a plot to ruin a non-profit charity, finds out his leukemia is back, and absolutely does not have a thing for Captain America's smile.  Probably.





	1. I Am Flesh Bones I Am Skin Soul I Am Human

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my collaboration partner, artist, and all around cheerleader, [the_she_devil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_She_Devil/works) Go and check her out. Her artwork is outstanding!
> 
> Thanks also to the wonderful moderators who made this challenge run smoothly. They put in a ton of work.
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from the song "Human" by Sevdaliza.
> 
> Here is a link that contains links to all the music featured in this story: http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/post/171247101634/thank-you-for-calling

“Thank you for calling Superhuman Disaster Insurance: New York Division. This is Bucky Barnes speaking. How can I help you?”

The drone of clacking keyboards lulled him into a false sense of complacency. Row upon row of identical cubicles spread out in front of him, one monotonous army, and on the wall at the end of the room, a row of television screens showcased the latest disaster.

“Sam Patel here. My car is currently located beneath a pile of rubble,” the man explained. “I think I need to file an insurance claim on that.”

“Are you within the seven hundred block of O'Neil and Prescott?” Technically, it was a silly question. He could hear the sounds of fighting through the man's telephone, the sharp zing of Iron Man's repulsor blasts and the metallic bang of Captain America's shield connecting against metal.

“Yes, Mister Barnes.”

“Great. I can walk you through the claims process, but the first thing I need for you to do is retreat from the active combat zone and get yourself somewhere safe. Safety is more important than your car, Mister Patel. Because here at Superhuman Disaster Insurance, we care about the whole person, not just their property.”

The woman in the cubicle next to his giggled.

“You don't want to come look at the vehicle?”

“Yes, we absolutely do, but I can set up an appointment to meet with you once the Avengers have the hostile situation under control. I really can't stress this enough--”

Mr. Patel screamed on the other end of the line. A loud commotion followed, the crash of bodies and infrastructure, and then the call was dropped.

Bucky yanked his headset off and stretched his arm over his head. “Guess you should have listened to me the first time I told you to leave the area.”

“Bucky,” Jubilee chastised.

“What? Who calls their insurance company instead of fleeing a disaster zone?”

He could feel the weight of Jubilee's glare blasting into his temple before another employee called his name. Following his co-workers direction, he glanced up to the bank of television screens where an Indian man held a hastily-scribbled note in front of a news camera. It read “Bucky Barnes: That's my car!” The man pointed toward the remains of what looked vaguely like a Beamer beneath over-sized blocks of stone, remnants of what had once been an office building.

Jubilee said, “Hey, I know that place. It's a small time advertising agency.”

“Was,” he responded.

“What?”

“It _was_ an advertising agency.” He indicated the television where a chopper zoomed out to show that the building was little more than dust and stone.

Jubilee blinked owlishly. “That's--”

“Semantics,” Bucky concluded.

“How can you be so--”

“Affable? Empathetic?”

“Barnes!” The voice emanated from inside their boss' office.

Bucky got to his feet and headed in that direction.

Jubilee called after him, saying, “Actually, I was gonna say 'asshole!'”

He turned to walk backward, greeting her with a broad grin and a quick, but entirely loving, middle finger that caused both gasps and sniggers from their fellow coworkers. He disappeared through the gates of Hell before anyone could call him on his unprofessional behavior, though.

“Gird your loins, Barnes,” Richard warned. Richard was their boss' personal assistant, a doe-eyed man who looked like he could be broken in half by a stiff breeze. No one could figure out how someone so slight had survived two years in service of the beast.

Hell was hot. Or maybe that was a result of the office memorandum warning the overdressed that office temperatures would be raised to prevent those who chose to wear fewer clothes from freezing their nipples off. Something about men wearing suits and jackets and women wearing short-sleeved business attire. Personally, he thought it was rather gender-biased. Nicole never wore anything less than a three piece suit to work, and Bob had this cute sundress he favored on Fridays.

“You bellowed, boss?”

The chair behind the formidable desk turned. In it sat a woman of Indian descent who couldn't have been taller than five feet. Jet black hair had been raked into a tight bun at the back of her neck, and she glared from behind thin glasses. Karima Shapandar was the horror of New York Division.

“Sit,” she barked.

He sat.

“You were in charge of processing a claim for Judith Smith.”

“I process so many claims it's hard to pull them from memory.”

“The house on Carr Street.”

“Oh! You mean the cute little bungalow. That was a house kit from the Sears Catalog. One of the last remaining in the five burrows if I'm correct. What about it?”

“You overpaid.”

“She made me cookies. I will not be held responsible for any actions I undertook whilst under the influence of snickerdoodles.”

A heavy breath escaped Ms. Shapandar. She pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly exasperated. “As an adjustor for SDI: NY, it's your responsibility to ensure the company's continued financial success, not to give in to a bleeding heart where old women are concerned. You could have-- No, you should have settled that case for far less.”

“All due respect, ma'am--”

The laser focus of her glare increased in intensity.

Bucky corrected himself, “All due respect, benevolent overlord, but Mrs. Smith's house was destroyed by a sapient, alien rhinoceros. She's in the golden years of her life, and her husband built that house with his bare hands. She's lived there for the past sixty years.”

“And she's going to die much sooner than later! You should have quoted the lower settlement and offered to relocate her to an assisted living facility of our choice.”

“You mean a rat trap that's barely held together with spit and mashed potatoes.”

“Mr. Barnes--”

“I get it! Don't pay out so much money when people are old as balls.”

His phone chimed at him. He jumped to his feet.

“I'm not done with you.”

“Sorry, boss. It's my lunch hour.”

“Barnes!”

“I can't hear you over the sound of my alarm!”

“Don't do it again, Barnes,” she called after him, but he could hear the fondness in her voice, the same fondness that meant he escaped the clutches of Hell on a regular basis where others wet themselves with fear, the same fondness that led to him being hired on the spot.

“Yes, ma-- Anything you say, She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

Jubilee waited for him by the elevators, yellow princess coat belted around her waist. “Should we stop at Saint Peter's for some holy water?”

“I think I escaped with minor damage.”

They boarded the elevator, and Jubilee fussed over his empty sleeve, unpinning it and folding it into straighter alignment before putting the pin back in. She then brushed the shoulder seams of his suit jacket to correct the alignment.

“Sometimes I think you get dressed in the dark.”

“Maybe you worry too much about the way I look.”

“Maybe if you worried more about the way you look, you would have been on a date sometime in this decade. When did you date that guy from Ethiopia?”

“Twenty-eleven. So take that.”

“You haven't been on a date in six years. That's not normal, friend.”

He shrugged. “I'm not the normal sorta guy.”

The sidewalk they exited onto was crammed with pedestrians, New Yorkers going on about their lives as though there wasn't some sort of superhuman showdown happening thirty blocks away. In that respect, it was easy to tell the natives from the tourists. Tourists huddled under whatever shelter they could find or spent their time glued to the early warning system that flashed yellow and orange to indicate an ongoing vigilante crisis. Natives had learned to ignore that shit ages ago.

Bucky caught a cab willing to take them into the disaster zone, and swung by to meet with Mr. Patel, let the guy know he really needed to worry about getting to safety. By the time they arrived, the situation had wrapped up, the area swarming with media while Captain America spoke to officials.

It was impossible to miss him, what with the red, white, and garish going on. He was a beacon. He was a shining star. Bucky couldn't stand him and everything he represented.

“You have to at least admit he's a looker,” said Jubilee.

He glanced back toward the captain, who'd removed his helmet. Sweat-soaked blond hair was flattened against his skull. Color rose high on his cheeks from the exertion of the fight. He stood favoring his left leg, and every time he shifted, a slight wince marred his features.

Was Steve Rogers attractive? He supposed so. Did Bucky feel his proverbial panties melting? Hell no. Attraction was about far more than a person's looks. The last time a man had melted his panties, he'd been tall drink of Ethiopian with lips made for kissing and a sense of humor that had counteracted even Bucky's pessimistic attitude.

“He's all right, I suppose.”

“A gay man who doesn't drool over Steve Rogers? Are you feeling all right?” She reached for his brow to check for fever.

“Rude,” he snapped in a grumpy tone of voice. “Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want everything on two legs with a dick and a pulse. I've got standards.”

“You've got standards higher than the Shanghai Tower.”

He ignored her in favor of approaching Mr. Patel, who greeted them with immense enthusiasm, so much enthusiasm it made Bucky want to vomit. There was such a thing as being a people person. Then there was Bucky Barnes, who could pretend like he was a people person while silently dreading the existence of the human collective.

*

The ankle Steve had propped up on a pillow was twice it usual size and vivid purple, and no amount of shifting around made him more comfortable. He wasn't prepared, therefore, to flee when the door of his apartment opened to admit Pepper, who sat down near his foot and pressed an ice pack over the affected area. Relief wasn't instant, but he could feel it working already.

“You didn't have to come all the way down here for that.”

A little smile played at her red lips. “Why not?”

“It'll heal on its own.”

“Just because it will heal doesn't mean it won't hurt.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she staved off the argument.

“Just say thank you.”

His answering grin was sheepish, and he scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks.” Pepper was his favorite of his sometimes-roommates, or maybe teammates was a better word considering they lived in a massive tower and each had a floor all to themselves.

Most days, he went home to the classic brownstone he was in the midst of restoring in Brooklyn but also kept an apartment in the tower for convenience. And also to escape the prying eyes of S.H.I.E.L.D, whom he had caught bugging his house on more than one occasion. In fact, he was ninety-five percent certain Kate, the woman who lived in the brownstone next door was an agent.

The pain subsided slowly, and he leaned back against the couch's armrest. “I was just listening to a podcast. Care to join me?”

She waved her hand to indicate he should continue.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.”

_“So there was another Superhuman disaster in New York today. That makes three incidents in the same month. Am I crazy here, or is this getting worse? Thing is, what are we, the little guys, supposed to do about taking back our city from the threat of vigilante terrorism?_

_“At some point we have to ask the right questions. Why here? Why do statistics clearly show New York as being the prime focus of enhanced terrorism? Might it have something to do with the giant space needle sitting right across from Grand Central Station? You know, that big ugly building with an A emblazoned on its rooftop?_

_“The Avengers advertise themselves to the world, and in the meantime, they put a giant spot light on our communities. Like 'Here we are, come and attack us! Oh, and all the people who happen to live here? Never mind about them.'_

_“Ten people were killed and dozens other wounded during today's attack. Millions of dollars of property damage occurred, and guess who has to pick up the tab for that damage? It sure as Hell ain't the Avengers, and the Stark Foundation can only handle so much before it implodes._

_“So why are we tolerating their presence? Why aren't we demanding they leave town? Take the chaos their presence generates to a location less populated by innocent people? We may be New Yorkers, and New Yorkers are tough as nails, but there's only so many times a person can get beat down before they stop getting back up._

_“Let me know your thoughts._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute”_

His head dropped back as he stared at the ceiling. It was smooth, not like the popcorn texture he was scraping off the ceilings of his Brooklyn home. Smooth and sterile. White walls, white carpet, white marble counter tops. White white white. Just like the ice and snow when he crashed the Valkyrie.

“Steve,” Pepper began, “people are allowed to have an opinion, but sometimes you have to disregard that opinion as uninformed.”

“But he's right. We fight. People get hurt.”

“The Avengers make sure fewer people get hurt than otherwise.” She rested her delicate palm against his shin, thumb sweeping back and forth through the gold hair dusting his legs.

“How much is your opinion worth when you voluntarily helped Tony make billions in weapons manufacturing?” He wanted to call it back as soon as the words left his mouth. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. It was harsh.”

Her chuckle was soft and musical. “Steve, you don't work for Tony Stark unless you have skin thicker than the walls of Fort Knox. You're right. I warned him against moving away from weapons manufacturing for the sake of the company's bottom line. Tony was right. I was wrong. I can admit that without letting it destroy my self esteem.”

“What am I even doing here?”

“Do you mean that to be a rhetorical question?”

He shrugged.

“No one says you have to fight.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D does.”

“No one can own a person. They can't patent Steve Rogers and make you do anything you're against.”

He allowed the conversation to drift away, concentrating instead on the ceiling above him. Thing was that he knew he was doing the right thing. The war had taught him a lot about not being able to save everyone and how sacrificing one to save the whole was often the best course of action.

It was one thing to sacrifice himself and something entirely different to sacrifice someone else. That was the problem. He needed to find a way to shoulder the unpreventable deaths or he would burn out and be in no condition to save anyone.

“I think I'm going to go for a run,” he finally said.

“Not with that ankle.”

The look she gave him could have frozen magma.

So he stayed put, behaved himself, allowed his body to recover because the idea of disappointing Pepper made him feel worse than the inactivity. He used the time to catch up on the sixties, which was a convoluted mess as progressive values fought against tradition. He would have liked the sixties and all the protesting that went down during that era.

Things were quiet for the next week. There was no Avengers business, and he successfully dodged representatives from S.H.I.E.L.D sent to bully him into playing Fury's proverbial ball game. Fury and Hill had their underpants in a twist about setting him up on a series of dates with wholesome New York women after media had mentioned the lack of Steve Rogers' love life. They wanted him to be the paragon of virtue who'd gone into the ice in 1945.

Then the media caught up with him while he was on a run through Central Park. See, normal people had a tendency not to blow things out of proportion until the media got involved. No one would have known about Steve Rogers: the Lab Experiment had the photographer failed to take photographs of his flight through New York chasing the Hydra operative responsible for killing Abraham Erskine.

Normal people hadn't done anything more than honk angrily for him blocking traffic that day, but someone had gotten a photograph. Next thing he'd known, he was on the cover of every paper from Albany, New York to Jacksonville, Florida. Senator Brandt? The USO tour? Steve becoming the face of the war? None of that would have happened without that one photograph and the media sensation that had followed.

So he was out for a run when news outlets decided to cook up their next headline.

“Captain Rogers, how do you feel about the Traditional Values Coalition using your image in their advertising material?”

“No comment.”

“Have you seen the advertisements yourself?”

He moved to go around the frenzy only to find his path blocked by yet another reporter shoving a microphone in his face. His anxiety levels ticked up another notch, but all he needed to do was stick to the script S.H.I.E.L.D PR personnel had given him. “Don't answer any questions that haven't gone through our screening process.”

“Captain Rogers!”

It turned into a feeding frenzy, like sharks catching the scent of blood in the water. They surrounded him. Flashes from their cameras momentarily blinded him. Someone touched him without permission.

“Fellas,” he started to say only to remember there were likely as many women in the crowd as men, “and ladies, do you think I'm going to answer your questions if you jump in my face? I'm just out for a run. If you want a statement, put a request into S.H.I.E.L.D's PR department.”

“But don't you think you should say something in regards to an anti-LGBTQIA organization actively lobbying to take away people's rights using your image to legitimize their agenda?”

“I can't comment on something I haven't seen.”

“Captain Rogers, over here!”

He was going to throw up if he didn't do something soon and was taken off guard by the sudden arrival of a group of older people who got between the reporters and him. Someone grabbed his arm and steered him away, and all he heard was the distant sound of someone saying, “You should be ashamed of yourselves harassing a veteran.”

When they finally got clear, he braced hands upon knees and dragged in a few ragged breaths before turning his attention to his rescuer. She was an older woman, deep lines on her face and hair mostly silver. Her smile was still warm and comforting. The pins on her blouse indicated she'd served as a nurse during the Vietnam War.

“You're just fine, sweetheart,” she cooed. “They'll keep those sharks distracted long enough for you get away. Don't you worry 'bout nothing.”

“Thank you,” he said when he could finally take a full breath. “Ma'am.”

“Pearl,” she corrected. “Pearl Coffman.”

He shook her hand, wary of her paper-thin skin and delicate bones. “It was good of you and the others to go out of your way to rescue me.”

“Nonsense. We veterans have to stick up for each other, right? Now, be a good boy and escort me back to the picnic.”

The picnic was an annual gathering for Manhattan veterans, and Steve found himself joining them. It didn't matter what war they'd served in. Some had only recently been discharged from fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq. The oldest was a man in his nineties who'd served in the second world war.

He found himself spending the most time with him, Karl Newman. They'd passed each other like ships at night during the war, Steve leaving an encampment just as Karl arrived. Talking to someone with shared experience helped him find closure when it came to the ending of his war.

*

A nurse rolled the crisp sleeve of his dress shirt down after she finished drawing blood. He smiled and thanked her. Just because he was an asshole didn't mean he shouldn't be polite when it came to health care professionals. They didn't get paid enough to put up with the real him.

He let a call go to voice-mail in favor of jogging to the nurse's desk to get his discharge papers and make another appointment. The blood tests were a precaution. Doctor García, his oncologist, wanted to re-check his white blood cell count, make sure the cancer wasn't recurring.

Childhood had been a difficult time for him. He'd spent most of it in and out of hospitals after the leukemia had been diagnosed. Everything from chemotherapy appointments to a bone marrow transplant had been necessary to put him into remission, so the pessimistic side of Bucky was expecting a recurrence. It was possible. No, it was likely, and he didn't expect to survive if it came back.

With the discharge papers tucked into his briefcase, he reached to open the door. Nothing happened. He reached again, a second attempt causing his stump to twitch, and that, ultimately, caused the massive eye roll. It happened. He'd lost his arm in childhood, so sometimes his brain forgot. Sometimes he felt like he still had his arm and tried using it. Alas.

He bumped the wheelchair button with his stump instead of putting his briefcase down and pushing the door open, but upon exiting the clinic, his phone blasted an incoming call. That did require he put his briefcase on the sidewalk in order to take it.

Shannon Burke was what they called a problem client. She was never happy no matter how the company ruled on her case. If they agreed to pay her claim, she bitched about how little he'd allocated. If they informed her that her claim wasn't covered, she... Well, he'd learned a lot of his current vocabulary (and his recent saltiness when it came to the general public) from Shannon Burke.

He grabbed a cab out to her property—she owned and operated a pretentious hipster cafe in Brooklyn—and climbed out to inspect the damage. A car jutted out of the front window of her establishment.

“Mr. Barnes, just look what they've done now.” She waved an irate hand toward the damage.

Picking his way through the rubble, he pried open the car door. “Have you called an ambulance?” The driver groaned, blood streaking down his face from where his head had hit the steering wheel. Alcohol fumes emanating from numerous open containers nearly chocked him.

“No, I wanted to wait for you before first responders showed up and trampled through the crash site.”

He swallowed a groan. “Call 911. This man needs medical attention. Sir, don't move. You may have injured you spine. You need to stay still until help arrives.”

“Well, what are you going to do about this?” demanded Shannon, her tone becoming more irate.

“Right now, I'm going to support this man's head until help arrives so he doesn't paralyze himself for life,” he snapped. “Then we're going to talk about how alcohol was the motivating factor of the crash.”

“Alcohol? That's nonsense. A mutant appeared right in front of his car, causing him to swerve to avoid impact and drive into my window.”

“Have you called 911?”

She huffed and whirled away, moving across the room where he barely made out her saying to the operator, “Some dumb-ass alcoholic drove through my front window. Please send someone.”

Later, once first responders cleared out and police released the scene to clean-up crews, Ms. Burke was not at all happy about his findings.

“This isn't covered under your policy with Superhuman Disaster Insurance,” he proclaimed. “I suggest you put in a claim with your standard property insurance.”

“What? But there was--”

He cut her off. “If Mr. Winston was a superhero or villain, you would have been covered, but he wasn't. He was your garden variety drunk driver.”

“You heartless prick. Look at my window. Look at this damage. Someone's going to pay for it.” Her voice cracked on the edge of tears.

At one point, he may have felt sorry for her. It wasn't as though the damage was her fault; she'd just had the bad luck of opening a business in the path of a drunk driver. But her attitude staved off the blossoming of any sympathy. In a city of millions, she was just another unfortunate who got stuck holding the bag from someone else's mistake.

Various and sundry names that shouldn't be spoken in polite society followed him out of the establishment when he left, and he caught a cab back to the office. Most people had gone home for the day, but he had some work he wanted to finish up before calling it quits. That was when he glanced at the television monitors showcasing Captain America being cornered and questioned by reporters in Central Park regarding the recent ads from the Traditional Values Coalition.

The ads in question showed a heroic image of Captain America standing between two angry mobs. It was captioned “Captain America: Defender of Moral Virtue.”

Those “no comments” he so flippantly handed out were just as bad as if he'd come out and endorsed the advertisements. Bucky wasn't any costumed vigilante's defender, but part of him had hoped Captain America would be different. As always, his hopes were disappointed.

Somewhere, a door closed. He didn't glance up until a shadow fell across him, at which point, he looked up to find She Who Will Not Be Named standing over him. He didn't bother masking how tired he was, couldn't have if he'd wanted, not with his eyes dry from spending too long staring at a monitor.

“What are you still doing here?” she demanded.

“Had to catch up on some things since I took off for my appointment.”

She nodded. “Good. That's why you aren't lazy or entitled like most people here. I like to see my employees taking their duties seriously.”

Beat.

“But you look like Hell. Buy some eye drops. Go home. Come back when you don't look like a zombie.” She turned to leave but stopped half-way to the door. “What did your oncologist say?”

“More blood tests.”

She didn't bother turning around to face him. “I hope you don't die, Barnes.”

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Voldemort. Better watch out. It gets out, and your reputation might be ruined.”

A huff escaped her, and she finally stepped onto the elevator with a final “Go home” tossed his way.

He did go home. Eventually. Trouble was that he wasn't looking forward to it. Jubilee would be there. She would demand answers about the appointment, and when he couldn't give them, her earnestness would overflow. Because Jubilee was tangible sunshine who thought she could protect the world with the sheer force of her belief.

He wasn't wrong, either. The second he entered the apartment and hanged his keys on the hook beside the door, she came flying from her bedroom wearing pink and yellow pajamas. Her hair was piled on her head with a scrunchie, and she took just a moment to glare at him for not removing his shoes in exchange for the unused slippers by the door.

“Did Doctor García say anything?”

He answered her the same way he'd answered Ms. Shapandar.

“Okay, well, sit here and put your feet up. I'll make you something to eat.”

“I'm not a child. You don't have to baby me,” he grouched, but he was secretly relieved to get off his feet. Sometimes he thought his whole body was nothing but one giant ache. Aching joints was what had prompted his most recent appointment.

“No one's babying you. We just care about how you're feeling.”

“Fine,” he responded. “I'm feeling fine.”

The look she gave him was one of extreme skepticism, but she let him get away with it for the time being. There would come a time when her stubbornness won out over his, he was sure.


	2. She Cut A Hole In The Fence And She Ran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Steve Rogers comes out and things explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song title comes from "She" by Alice Phoebe Lou

Steve hanged upside down off the end of his bed, arms crossed over his stomach as he did another crunch. In the background, the day's edition of what Steve referred to as “Why Superhumans Suck” podcast played, Mr. Barnes' voice rough and frenetic with irritation.

_“So what does the guy do? He says 'no comment.' No freaking comment. An organization actively lobbying against rights for the LGBTQIA community is using his images, and he doesn't have a comment about it? Seems to me like Captain America is part of the problem instead of the solution._

_“And you know what? That pisses me off. I'm sure I'm not the only one who grew up learning about Captain Steve Rogers in my history books. They called him a little spitfire, never afraid to stand up for what he believed in. There are archival images of Steve Rogers attending a rally advocating socialism. There are even more images of him attending protests against segregation. This is a guy who single-handedly got his art school to drop its segregation laws and allow the enrollment and attendance of black students. He did that._

_“Now he's got no freaking comment? Yeah, that pisses me off. I expected better of him. When you claim to be a champion of civil rights, you shouldn't pick and choose which rights you support and which ones just don't matter. I guess guys like me and gals like Jubilee and all the other individuals who aren't heteronormative, just don't fucking matter to him._

_“Where is Steve Rogers? Where's that little guy who wasn't afraid to stand up for his beliefs? 'Cause he was ten times the man this so-called Captain America is. Far as I can tell, we got shafted. Guess Project Rebirth sucked all the fight out of him and turned him into another meathead who's only good for punching things in the face._

_“Tell me what you think._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute”_

He finished the last of his crunches and sat up at the foot of his bed, swiping a broad palm against his brow to take away the sweat before it could drip into his eyes.

Mixed emotions swirled through his gut in a confused mess. Part of him wanted to grab Barnes by the shirt front and demand to know what he should have done in that situation. He hadn't even known about the Traditional Values Coalition. He sure as Hell hadn't been prepared to be ambushed by the media regarding the ads. No matter what he'd said to those questions, someone would have raked him over the coals. Nothing he said in public was taken at face value.

On the other hand, a part of himself felt warmed that someone hadn't forgotten Steve Rogers, that the kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight meant something to someone, meant something more than the suit and the muscles and the reckless insistence on throwing himself in front of every fist headed toward New York.

A puff of breath blew a tuft of hair from his forehead.

“Why do you listen to that shit?”

Tony's voice inside the apartment startled him. He jerked to his feet to find Stark standing in the doorway, shoulder propped against the jamb as though he hadn't a care in the world.

“We should always listen to criticism,” he replied. “It's the only way to ever grow.”

“Good way to get our faces pounded into the dirt, too. People's opinions are like assholes, you know. Everyone's got one. Too few of them are at all educated.” He tossed a wrench in the air and caught it.

He supposed Tony had a point. Somewhere, Chicken Little should run screaming that the sky was falling from him agreeing with Tony for a change. They didn't do it often.

Eventually, he asked, “Is there a reason you broke into my apartment?”

“Yeah, I got some time in between projects. Wanted to see if you were available to work on The Bike.”

Steve felt the warmth of excitement flood his chest and face. There might not be much they agreed on. That was a known fact and something bemoaned by most of the other Avengers, but the one thing they could both get on board with was “The Bike.” It was a 1928 Brough Superior SS100.

T. E. Lawrence had owned three of the bikes in his lifetime, so when Tony had found a dismantled one at auction, he'd leaped at the chance to own and restore it. That would have been that if it hadn't been for Steve stumbling into the garage one day and seeing Tony working on it. Since then, it had become their secret project whenever they both had time.

Down in the garage, Steve sat on one side to attach a brake line, soothed by the scratch of the ratchet on its back-swing. They worked silently until he asked, “What would you do about these ads?”

“Tell them to sit on it and spin and send a cease and desist order.”

Beat.

“What?” continued Tony in response to the open shock Steve wore.

“Just didn't think that sort of thing mattered to you.”

“Hey, I can be sensitive,” he insisted while pointing a wrench in Steve's direction. “Wait, are you trying to come out to me? Is this a come out moment? Because that's exciting. We can throw a party, get you a nice cake with rainbow decorations.”

“No parties,” interrupted Steve, “and yeah, I guess I am. Bisexual.”

“Pansexual.”

They shook on it over the motorbike, and some minutes passed before the conversation resumed. It was pleasant, sitting in the garage, the only sounds interrupting the quiet being those of their tools. He wondered how often Tony allowed himself quiet moments like these. Didn't happen often, that was for sure. Every time Steve entered Tony's lab, loud music blasted from a bajillion speakers, like he couldn't handle the silence and had to drown out the cacophony in his mind.

“No way I'd stand for them using my image to debase a community that doesn't deserve that shit,” Tony finally said. “But then, I don't give a crap about my reputation. That's the difference between us. I know I'm exceptional. I know I've got skills the public needs. Therefore they'll tolerate my shenanigans. What about you? Are you exceptional?”

Steve hanged his head, unsure how to comment without sounding like a braggart or like he had terrible self-esteem. Echoes of Red Skull haunted his mind. The Skull had asked him the same damn thing. 'What makes you so special?'

So he said the same thing now as he did then. “I'm just a kid from Brooklyn.”

“God, I can't even yell at you about under-valuing yourself when you look like a giant golden retriever. That's bullshit, you know. You're the only super soldier in the world. Nobody can pick up that shield and do with it what you do. Nobody would be dumb enough, but nobody would be smart enough either. You've got charisma oozing from your pores. You've also got the media's attention. You're the darling of the United States military machine. Use that. Don't use that. Do whatever.”

His chest tightened, and he suddenly smiled. “Hey, aren't you the same guy who claimed the only thing special about me came out of a bottle?”

A person couldn't roll their eyes any harder than Tony rolled his. “Don't listen to me when I'm feeling godlike or under the influence of Loki's scepter. Bad combination. Makes me word-vomit.”

Steve took the conversation to heart, and the next morning, Pepper helped him call a press conference. He did not wear the suit or carry the shield. He wasn't necessarily speaking as Captain America but as Steve Rogers, that little shrimp from Brooklyn who couldn't watch injustice happening without butting his nose into it. Someone had to stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves, the people whose voices weren't considered relevant enough to afford a national platform.

He straightened his tie and stepped out to the podium.

“Thank you for coming. This press conference was called because I wanted to address a series of ads using the likeness of Captain America to push the agenda of the Traditional Values Coalition. I want to formally condemn those ads. No one approached me to ask for permission to use my likeness-- And, I want to say--”

A deep breath filled his lungs. He glanced at his note cards. Then, he chuckled. “These notes were prepared by the PR department of Stark Industries. I'm supposed to read them and leave without answering any questions, but that feels disingenuous.” He paused and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Truth is there's no excuse for what the Traditional Values Coalition did, and I'm mad as Hell. I don't care what your private beliefs are. Nothing gives you the right to dismiss, target, or tear down a group of people who are already struggling to be seen as normal human beings.

“Gay men, lesbians, asexuals, bisexuals, pansexuals, transexuals... They're people, and I am damn sure that no one pointing the finger at them—at us—would like it if the pendulum suddenly swung their way. What gives you the right to treat us as less than human?” A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“When I was a young man, I lived in a culture of fear and persecution, a culture where I could be arrested for the terrible crime of loving someone who happened to be the same sex as me and will not tolerate the same out of this bright, beautiful future we live in.

“So if you've got something to say about a group of people struggling for acceptance, you say it to me. I can handle it. The kid who's being kicked out of their home at the age of fifteen because they came out to their parents can't.

“Freedom is freedom, and it means individuals are free to do with their bodies whatever they chose regardless of your personal feelings on the matter.”

Chaos erupted around him.

*

“Did Captain America just come out?” Jubilee demanded, excitement trembling in every limb of her body. “Oh God, he just came out on national television. Bucky are you hearing this?”

He looked at the test results he'd just received in the mail.

“Bucky?” She shook his shoulder in an effort to redirect his attention to the television. “Are you seeing this? Steve Rogers is back. That should make you happy considering how much time you devote to tearing him down.”

“I wasn't tearing him down,” he answered in an off-handed sort of way.

Her excitement banked, and she turned toward him, color leaving her face when she glanced to the paper he held and the address listed on the envelope. “Is that...?”

All he could do was nod.

“What does it say?”

“My white blood cell count is elevated. I need to go in for a biopsy.”

“Okay. Okay, we can deal with this. Nothing's for sure yet. You could have some underlying infection. That would cause your white blood cell count to jump, right?” She knelt in front of him and settled her hands on his knees. “Nothing's set in stone yet.”

“Come on Jubes,” he said, exasperated, “you know what the chances are of a recurrence. You know my luck. This is... God, this is--” He couldn't continue and pressed a hand over his mouth.

“Hey, hey. Don't do that. Don't fight what you're feeling.” Her arms went around him, pulling him into the warmth and comfort of her embrace. “We're going to get through this no matter what.”

“I'm scared,” he whispered against her shoulder.

Every day, he'd lived with the knowledge the leukemia could come back. It was that ghost haunting him from the moment doctors had pronounced him cancer-free. Being in remission had always felt like bought time, like he was living his life waiting for the next missile to explode in his face.

Now he didn't even have his parents to pull him through. He didn't even have Becca. She would do what she could from prison, sure, but it wasn't the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.

That sense of impending doom followed him for the next couple of weeks while waiting for the biopsy appointment. Ms. Shapandar got snippy with him when he said he needed some extra time off, but he knew her snippy attitude was a cover. It was armor protecting a vulnerable core, because when they got their next schedule, he found himself assigned to the more preferential shifts.

Jubilee went with him to the biopsy where Doctor García aspirated bone marrow with a needle for more targeted testing. Then, it was a matter of waiting for the results.

While waiting, he tried to keep himself distracted. Jubilee took him to the cinema. They went out roller skating in Central Park and stood in the shadow of Avengers Tower where crowds of reporters camped out hoping to get pictures of the recently-outed Captain America. The captain left the tower a couple of times, once in the company of Pepper Potts, who icily suggested the reporters obey the unspoken laws of personal space lest they be slapped with assault charges.

Bucky was much too preoccupied with his own fate than to worry about a mega-celebrity who had everything in the world handed to him. So Rogers had come out. Good for him. Nobody was kicking him out of his home or beating him up in a back alley for being on the minority spectrum, but it was impossible not to see the awkward shuffle of Rogers' feet or witness the way he dropped his head into his hands once inside the car, Ms. Pott's hand rubbing gentle circles on his back.

So maybe he could drum up a smidgeon of empathy. Maybe pigs could fly. Maybe his doctor would call him the next day and say he had a kidney infection instead of leukemia. 

None of that happened. What did happen was that several blocks of China Town were obliterated by an explosion, and Bucky was nearby when it happened.

The thing about being near an explosion was that the body didn't always react the way it was supposed to. Common sense said to run like Hell, but that wasn't what he did. After the initial shock, after picking himself up out of the rubble he'd been blown into, he moved toward the disaster rather than away from it. Because there were people in there.

Now, he wasn't always the fondest when it came to people. Sure, he could charm the birds from the air if he wanted to, but people were unpredictable the way cancer was unpredictable, and he didn't bother having the time of day for most of them. At least that's what he told everyone around him, but when push came to shove, he was the one living on borrowed time and therefore expendable.

If he died saving one life, then it wasn't a big loss. After all, he was dead already. It was only that the cancer hadn't caught up with him yet. So he ran into a burning building and started pounding on doors to evacuate people. In the case of one elderly woman whose door had been warped and couldn't escape, he found a crow bar and pried it open, helping her down the stairs and to safety along with the bird cage which contained her beloved companions.

Once she was safe, he went back for another victim. And on it went until the hours dragged by, the sun set, and the area was crammed with first responders and the Avengers.

After exiting a building that probably wasn't structurally sound anymore, a toddler in his arms, he collapsed. Or at least he started to, but he didn't hit the ground. Someone caught him, and he looked up into the face of Steve Rogers.

“Do you need medical attention?”

Bucky coughed up what felt like lungfuls of smoke. “I don't--” He wanted to say he was fine, but the coughing interrupted his comment, and before he could say anything else, he was sitting in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask over his face and Captain America no where to be seen.

Hell, maybe he hallucinated the whole thing, but no, there was the red, white, and blue emerging from a building with another survivor.

Jubilee would be worried sick. He tried to call her, but the network was jammed as it often was following a major disaster, so he sat numbly and watched the chaos around him. Firefighters worked to contain the blazes. A mutant who controlled water helped in dousing the smaller fires, and all around them were the victims standing in wordless horror while watching their lives ruined.

The thing about Superhuman Disaster Insurance was that it wasn't cheap. New York was at the top of the list when it came to superhuman terrorism and the resulting damage. Most folks, the folks who really needed it couldn't afford it, and sometimes folks chose between normal property insurance and Superhuman Disaster Insurance.

It was a sad fact their property was more likely to be destroyed by superhuman terrorism than a natural disaster. And an every-day, garden-variety explosion wouldn't be covered by disaster insurance. Some people on Capital Hill fought to get the insurance subsidized to make it more affordable, but everyone knew a Republican controlled congress and senate would sooner burn their own fortunes than do anything that benefited the plebeians of the United States.

So Bucky did the only thing he could do; he lied.

Bold as brass, he looked the officer who interviewed him right in the eye and said, “I saw a man in a costume just before the explosion. He had suspicious looking baggage.”

And that was all it took to send the cops and the Avengers chasing some non-existent super-villain and allowing people to claim the disaster as derived by superhuman terrorism. Between the rich financiers behind Superhuman Disaster Insurance and the working class folks who'd just had their worlds explode, he would definitely sleep fine at night having told the lie.

He was just getting ready to leave when Captain America approached. 

“Hey, I wanted to check and see how you're doing before you took off. What you did was very brave.”

Bucky shrugged. “No braver than everyone else who showed up to help out.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn't take away from your bravery. Are you doing okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I'm fine.” Of course, his body chose that moment to cough again.

Steve arched a brow.

“No, really. Just smoke inhalation.”

“I'd really feel better if you got checked out by a professional.”

“Come on now, Cap. That's sweet and all, but I know my health better than you.”

The guy actually blushed, blushed and cocked the toes of his left foot inward in a stance that was clearly embarrassed or awkward, and that was not cute. It was not at all cute for a man the size and notoriety of Captain America to be awkward. That just wouldn't be fair.

“Do you live around here?”

“No, I live out in Brooklyn.” He realized too late he'd said the magic “B” word.

Before he could take it back, Captain America was lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Whereabouts in Brooklyn? I mean, not that you owe me an explanation or anything. Right, you probably think I'm some sort of stalker now. Sorry. You don't have to answer that.”

Goddamn it.

“Cobble Hill.”

“I lived in Brooklyn Heights.”

Awkward silence descended.

Steve broke it when he asked, “Can I at least make sure you get home safely?”

He had no idea what possessed him to agree. Maybe it was his aching body. Maybe it was the certainty of his impending death. Maybe it was morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, he allowed Steve to walk beside him, hands jammed in his pants pockets.

And there was something calming about it. He thought it had to do with being able to walk down the street without worrying about looking over his shoulder. Growing up gay hadn't been the terror it was for other people. His parents had been loving and accepting, and New York wasn't some bastion of conservative thought the way Alabama or Arizona were.

So he hadn't had it nearly as hard as a lot of other gay men and certainly not as bad as what transgender people faced on a daily basis. But he also wasn't immune to the fear garnered by hearing stories about homosexuals being targeted with hate crimes. At some point, that message had sunk into the fiber of his bones, and for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

Steve said, “I wanted to thank you.”

“What for?”

“Sometimes, I listen to your podcast, and you gave me the courage to stand up for myself and everyone else who identifies as queer. Shit. Sorry. I'm not supposed to say that word anymore.”

He found himself pausing on the sidewalk and standing with his mouth open. “Wait, you listen to my podcast?” It was impossible to discern how he felt about that.

“Sometimes. I recognized your voice.”

“Huh.” Then he chose to address something else Steve had said. “I actually don't mind the word 'queer.' A lot of people do, so if they ask you to stop using it around them, you should absolutely uphold their wishes. It's just not a word that offends me.”

Something loosened in Steve's shoulders. “You've had a lot to say about superhumans lately.”

“I'm not going to take it back, if that's what you're suggesting.”

“I'm not. Everyone is entitled to speak their minds on their own platforms.”

“Even neo-nazis suggesting we purify America?”

Steve cringed. “It's not-- I'm--”

And God, he suddenly felt bad. Here was a man who'd been awake in the twenty-first century for a few months, and he was hammering him like a spike in a railroad track. 

“Hey, I'm sorry. You can't know the nuance of every day society yet.”

“I should. My words have consequences. People listen to them and give them more credit than they sometimes deserve, so when I say something wrong-- Sometimes I feel it's better to just keep my mouth shut, you know, rather than damage any minority's standing while they're fighting for equality.”

Part of him agreed with Steve. Better to say nothing than to say something wrong, but saying nothing meant men like Bucky hounded him to come out in support of various social issues, and Hell, he couldn't imagine what it was like filtering every word he said to the point where it was safer not to speak at all than to say something wrong.

At some point, he'd forgotten Captain America was a living, breathing human being.

Bucky stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Steve, a person can't live like that. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes we say stuff we don't really mean, or stick our feet in our mouths. It's going to happen. Humans are messy and no one's perfect. It's how you handle your screw-ups that counts.

“What counts is apologizing sincerely and learning from your mistake. Never be afraid of being wrong. You can always correct yourself. You can't go back in time and say things you wished you'd said but didn't for fear of the consequences.”

Something soft and shy appeared on Steve's face.

Good gravy, he couldn't stand it, wanted to reach out and make contact, try to reassure Steve, tell him how freaking adorable he was when he looked like that, but ultimately, he didn't. They weren't friends. He would likely never see Steve again.

Once they were away from the disaster zone, they caught a cab. It was funny how New York kept going despite a major calamity. There were still cabs running. People were still moving about the city. Employees still went to work. The city still lived and breathed.

At the door of his apartment building, he paused and said, “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Thanks for letting me.”

That was where they could have exchanged numbers to stay in contact. Some inkling of chemistry stretched the distance between them. Bucky would never admit to feeling that sort of spark for a superhero. Getting involved with someone in a costume was a terrible idea.

Eventually, he stood in the tips of his toes and kissed Steve's cheek and said, “Stay safe.”

Steve's answering smile was soft and open in a way Bucky couldn't be; he was too jaded to allow himself to be that vulnerable. At least that's what he told himself.

“You stay safe, too.”

That said, Steve left.

Bucky watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, at which point, he keyed inside the building and went up to the apartment.

He wasn't wrong. Jubilee was losing her mind and wasn't afraid to show it when he stepped inside. In fact, he was pretty sure the only reason she didn't duct tape him to the sofa was because of her girlfriend, Anjali telling her to lay off. Bucky loved Anjali. Sometimes, she was his favorite person.


	3. Seemed Easier Than Just Waiting Around To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Steve plays awkward wingman and Bucky runs into his totally-not-favorite superhuman at a club. Things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from the song "Waiting Around to Die" by The Be Good Tanyas.

New York's S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters thrummed with anticipation. Operatives and employees gave Steve a wide berth when he entered and made his way upstairs to the waiting room outside Nick Fury's office. It was like they knew something, like they were expecting fireworks. 

Honestly, he wasn't surprised. Fury's organization had a lot riding on the Captain America reputation to serve as a legitimizing symbol for the face of their operation. People trusted S.H.I.E.L.D in part because Captain America worked for them.

The door to Fury's office opened, and he barked “Rogers, inside.”

He rose from his chair and padded into the office but neither spoke until the door latched behind him.

“What were you thinking?”

“Depends on what we're talking about.”

“Captain American can't just call the Speaker of the House an unenlightened fool with an agenda!”

“I can when he says things that are baseless about the homosexual and transgender communities.”

Fury palmed his brow. “This is because of that podcaster, isn't it. You were happy to stay on the sidelines until you started listening to Mr. Barnes.”

That statement made Steve freeze. “How do you know what I've been listening to?”

Director Fury responded with a bland expression. “Do you really think we don't keep tabs on what media you're consuming? You're an asset of this organization, and we have a vested interest in how the symbolism of your title of Captain America affects what we do.”

“Why don't you explain that statement to someone born in nineteen-seventeen.” Steve couldn't help crossing his arms, the stance reflecting his increasing ire.

“If the general public is happy with you, they're happy with S.H.I.E.L.D and cooperate when we release bulletins that help us police the superhuman community. If they're not happy with you, well, as you can imagine, they take it out on the organization that's given you a platform to speak from.”

“So you're suggesting I keep my mouth shut. Let bullies get away with poisoning the general public against minority groups who don't have the same power to fight their battles?”

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose and opened a file on his desk. “From the Office of Senator Brandt: Captain America is a symbol of virtue and moral justice. He is the best of American society and should reflect the ideals to which common man should aspire.”

He opened his mouth to say something but Fury cut him off.

“Project: Captain America Report. April 19, 1943

Dear Senator Brandt,

As you know, Captain Rogers was caught in a compromising position involving one of the stage hands during the USO tour. We seized film from a local reporter that contained incriminating evidence of the captain involved in a sexual situation with a man, but it didn't stop the reporter from spreading the gossip throughout the local community. If we don't act fast, I fear it could taint the legacy of Project: Captain America.”

Fury closed the folder and threaded his fingers together atop the desk. “I think you know what the response to that escapade was.”

“I'm aware.”

“Look, I understand that your world was turned upside down, but you volunteered for this. You agreed to carry the expectations of your country on your shoulders.”

“Figured my contract should have expired by now,” he responded with a smirk.

“The facts are that Captain America is a heterosexual man who upholds the traditional values of our society. It sucks, sure. Trust me, I know how underhanded that sentiment is, but the situation is such that changing the narrative now will damage the symbol that is Captain America.”

“Thus damaging the reputation of your organization.”

“I'm glad we agree.”

“Oh, I didn't say I agreed. You seem to have this notion that I would wake up and jump when you snapped your fingers, that my confusion in this new world would be such that it would make me easily controllable, but what are you going to do to stop me? Have me killed?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I can imagine the upheaval involved for S.H.I.E.L.D should it get out they assassinated a veteran of World War II, that they shot a bisexual man for exercising his right to freedom of speech. That could go pretty badly for you.”

Steve turned to leave. “I'll try not to call anyone a dimwit again. That was badly done of me. We don't need to resort to name calling to get our point across, and I hope you enjoy monitoring all the gay porn I'm going to look up for your benefit.”

Nothing felt quite so satisfying as slamming the door of Fury's office behind him as he left, allowing that last bang to carry the weight of his words. Authorities had pulled the same shit with him back during the war. To wake up in a brand new world that enjoyed so many more freedoms only to be placed back in a jail cell wasn't something he could swallow.

The thought followed him from headquarters where paparazzi started tailing him again. Apparently coming out on national television as bisexual was enough to make world headlines. He'd gotten much better at ignoring the unwanted attention and climbed astride his Harley for the trip back to Avengers Tower. He had every intention of spending the rest of the day on his couch catching up on his podcasts.

_“Look, it's all well and good for Captain America to come out as bisexual. Yay. Go us. There's now a bigger scapegoat for Fox News to pick on. But that doesn't mean shit in the daily life of people who fall under the umbrella of the LGBTQIA community._

_“Let me know when he starts showing up at Pride parades or rallies attempting to bring attention to the lack of support for transgender men and women who've been kicked out of their homes. Once he starts taking responsibility for being a part of this community, then we'll discuss whether or not Captain America is the country's newest LGBTQIA icon._

_“But I want to talk about something else today. I want to talk about Tony-freaking-Stark. Did any of you see his press conference the other day? Apparently Tony-freaking-Stark has created a quote, unquote charity to help funnel finances to communities devastated by superhuman disasters. Great! Awesome! Tony Stark is our hero._

_“However, I'm looking at the financials of this new non-profit. It's headed up by some corporate rat named Justine Finnigan. You want to know the real juicy news here? Finnigan is her mother's maiden name. If you dig deep enough, you find out her real name is Justine Hammer, daughter of Hammer Industries CEO Justin Hammer._

_“Okay, not very big news, right? There's a lot of corporate hand-holding and nepotism in the top echelon of our biggest corporations right. Maybe she's nothing like her daddy, who inadvertently allowed super-villain Ivan Vanko, also known as Whiplash, to run rampant through the Stark Expo leading to the deaths of dozens and property damage costing in the millions._

_“Funny thing is that I'm looking at the company's incomings and outgoings, and let me tell you, there are some discrepancies here. First off, Justine Finnigan-Hammer earns roughly eleven million dollars as the CEO of this non-profit. Eleven million dollars that could be going to families and communities hardest hit by superhuman terrorism._

_“For every dollar that is donated, the communities in need see thirteen cents. Thirteen cents, folks, with the rest being funneled to the supposed costs of operating this non-profit, things like the salaries of the CEO and other top-level corporate rats. Of course, the guys and gals and non-gendered in the lower levels are all volunteer or unpaid internship positions._

_“So, Tony-freaking-Stark, what are you gonna do about stamping your name on a non-profit where only an eighth of every dollar is distributed to those in need? Or don't you care since you'd rather be out joy riding in the Iron Man suit painting a massive target on New York City?_

_“Tell me what you think._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute”_

Beat.

Tony's voice emanated from the building's intercom system. “Justine Hammer?” he shouted. “And how the Hell did your boy get his hands on the financials of my non-profit?”

“You ask me like you think I know.”

“Oh. Right. You wouldn't know an ISP from UPS. Goddamn it. J.A.R.V.I.S, run diagnostics on Superhuman Relief Division. Find out how that guy hacked into our systems.”

Beat.

Tony continued, “Bucky-freaking-Barnes and his anti-superhuman crusade. Fucking activists.” His voice faded as J.A.R.V.I.S ended the connection.

Steve, meanwhile, laughed. It was the sort of belly-laugh he hadn't had since coming out of the ice, and when the giggling eased, he wiped tears from his cheeks. Bucky Barnes had a way of getting under a person's skin and making them feel like they weren't doing enough or pushing hard enough to be better people, and Steve wasn't sure how he felt about that, whether he felt guilty or inspired.

The afternoon passed toward evening, and he was in the midst of bawling his eyes out over the ending of Where the Red Fern Grows—seriously, he would never look at fluffy books about a boy and his dogs again—when J.A.R.V.I.S announced the arrival of Clint Barton, who rushed inside the second the door swished open.

“You gotta help me. She's got a date. I hate when she has dates. Pretty soon, someone's gonna realize how awesome she is, and then they'll start dating, and I'll have to listen to her getting all mushy about how happy she is. And you gotta help me sabotage her date, man.” His hair was askance, probably from raking his fingers through it.

Steve sat up straighter on the sofa and set aside his e-reader. “Slow down, pal. Who has a date?”

“Nat! Some stupid shithole asked her out when we were running an errand for S.H.I.E.L.D, and they're going out tonight. Cap,” he grabbed Steve's shoulders and shook him. “You gotta help me here, buddy. I just know he's gonna hurt her.”

“Why are you so certain of that? They might hit it off.”

“No.” Clint wrung his hands. “He's such a tool. You should see him. If you saw him, you'd understand. He's a total douchebag who doesn't deserve her.”

Steve opened his mouth to respond, thought better of his comment, and closed it again. He finally chose to say, “Hey, I'm pretty sure Nat can take care of herself.”

“Not like this! I mean, sure. She uses sexuality like a weapon, but when it comes to being really vulnerable with people, she's not so good at telling whether or not they're gonna hurt her. Come on. You gotta help me out here. We gotta save her.”

Something dawned on him, and he sat back with a smile. “You're jealous.”

“What? No!”

“Clint, you're jealous that Nat has a date when she doesn't usually date people. Hey, it's okay. I just didn't know that you had those kinds of feelings for her.”

“Are you kidding? Who wouldn't?” Clint's eyes widened, and he slapped both hands over his mouth like he'd just spat out state secrets or something. “I did not mean that. Nat is my friend. She's my partner. We work well together. I totally don't--” A long groan escaped him.

“I won't help you ruin her date, but I'll be your wingman if you want to go and spy on them.” Wait, had he just agreed to spy on the super-spy? Surely nothing good could come of that.

“Yeah? Aces! They're going for drinks tonight at a club, so wear those tight jeans that really show off your ass. Maybe you can distract her date or something.”

By the time they arrived at the club, he'd changed his mind about a dozen times. Nat was a grown up who could make her own choices, but one look at Clint's kicked-puppy look assured him he was doing the right thing. Besides, everyone was sick of watching their resident spies dance around each other the way they had all afternoon.

The club was loud and crammed to capacity, but the bouncer waved them inside upon realizing who they were. Preferential treatment was kinda nice considering no one had looked twice at tiny Steve Rogers or recognized anything special about him. Maybe he should be ashamed of soaking up the good attention that came from his celebrity status.

“Okay. We're gonnna camp out at the bar until they show up,” Clint yelled over the thumping bass.

They got drinks, a Raspberry Screwball for Clint and a Sidecar for Steve, and he was relaxing into the atmosphere when Natasha walked through the door on the arm of Hollywood hotshot Rebel Ralston.

See, people thought Steve was a grandpa who took to modern technology the way most cats took to water, but he wasn't even thirty yet. Like most people his age, he was curious about technology and easily mastered it when he put his mind to it, so yes, he knew who Rebel Ralston was and even sporadically enjoyed some of his movies.

“Told you,” hissed Clint. “Doesn't he look like a tool?”

“Clint, do you know who that is?”

“I don't care who he is, Cap. Oh God, he's putting his hand on her back. She doesn't like when people put their hands on her back. It makes her feel vulnerable.”

Only Natasha reacted to the intimate touch by pressing a kiss to Rebel's cheek and allowing him to pull out a chair for her. They sat and ordered drinks, conversation deepening between them. Every now and then, Rebel reached across the table and touched her hand.

And Clint? Clint looked like Angry Bird reaching the end of his patience. It would have been humorous if Steve didn't know just how upset Clint actually was by the display, so he settled a hand on Clint's shoulder in a friendly sort of manner.

“I'm gonna give you a bit of advice, a trick we used to use back in the day to get dames to give us the time of day. You interested?”

“I thought you weren't all that good with the ladies back then.”

“Sure. Dames didn't really give me the time of day. Peggy's the closest thing I ever had to a girlfriend, but you know what an artist is good at? People watching.”

“Okay. So let's hear it.”

Steve looked all around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation and whispered, “When we liked a dame and wanted to take her out, we talked to her. Told her how we feel. Let her know how swell she looked and how much it'd be an honor to escort her to dinner and dancing.”

Clint's expression soured, and he mock-smacked Steve's shoulder. “That's not super-secret-dame-getting advice. That's common sense-- Oh.”

Once Clint caught on, Steve couldn't stop laughing. He laughed until his stomach hurt, and he clutched the stitch in his side.

“The history books don't mention what a sarcastic ass-hat you are.”

“Ah, Clint. Don't be mad. It's just the solution to your problem is simple. If you like Nat that way, tell her about it. See if she feels the same. If she does, then you ask her on a date. If she doesn't, then you try not to let it bother you and accept the friendship you both treasure.”

“But-- But--”

“It's only your dick, pal. Trust me, letting jealousy get in the way of a treasured friendship's gonna hurt a lot worse than your blue balls. You love her, right?”

Clint hesitated before agreeing.

“Then the only thing that will change about your relationship with her is adding sex to the mix. Hopefully it works and she feels the same. If she doesn't, you're still gonna love her. It just won't include getting your dick wet.”

The poor guy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and whispered, “I can't believe I'm having this conversation with Captain America. You're probably a virgin anyway.”

That made Steve choke on a sip of his drink. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You know, your only semi-relationship was with Carter. You were sick all the time. Then you were fighting a war, so there probably wasn't a lot of time for getting jiggy with it.”

“Want me to tell you another secret from back in the day?”

“Is this one going to make me roll my eyes?”

Steve shrugged and ordered another Sidecar. When Clint indicated he should go on, he said, “Modernity didn't invent the one-night-stand. There were these things called latrines. Didn't smell very good, but nobody liked patrolling around the latrines. Good spot to get pushed up against a wall and fucked.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with the real Steve Rogers?”

“Had my eyes opened? Got reminded that it's easier to say what's on your mind and get yelled at than it is to come to the end of your life and regret not saying it at all.”

Clint suddenly sank a little farther in his chair to hide behind a potted plant.

Steve nudged him. “There he goes to the toilet. Now's your chance.”

“I changed my mind. I don't wanna.”

“Either you do it, or I will.”

“Oh shit. You would, wouldn't you.”

So Steve sat on his bar stool and watched from a distance as Clint skulked across the room. Natasha didn't seem entirely surprised to see him, and while he couldn't hear their conversation, he could read the emotions on their faces. Natasha's screamed smug. It screamed a plan well-executed. Eventually, she slipped her hand in Clint's and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

And when Rebel returned from the bathroom, he didn't seem at all surprised at the change. In fact, he saluted Natasha before heading over to the bar to order something.

Shaking his head, Steve turned around to get another beer, only catching the entrance of Bucky Barnes into the club through the mirror lining the wall behind bottles of alcohol.

*

“Will you just stop for a minute?” Jubilee cried.

He didn't stop. In point of fact, he moved faster, grabbing the stylish leather jacket draped over one of their dining room chairs to swirl around his shoulders. The envelope with his biopsy results laid haphazardly on the dining room table.

She grabbed one of his shoulders.

He pivoted and jerked away to escape her touch, putting several steps between them. “Just leave me the fuck alone right now!” he shouted.

Hurt flashed across her expression, but she backed off. After a moment of silence, she asked, “Do you really think you should be going out right now?”

“I think it's the best opportunity for me go out.”

“Bucky...”

“What?” he snapped.

Beat.

“Just spit it out.”

When her voice came, it was whisper soft. “I don't want to lose you.”

Something inside him snapped like a taut rubber band, and he clenched his hand into a fist at his side. They'd meant so much to each other over the years. Sometimes he forgot he wasn't the only one impacted by the contents of his results. So he blew out a heavy breath and pulled her into his chest.

“I know you don't.”

“Ever since my parents-- I was basically living in the mall for cripes sake, and then you came and--” Beat. “I just wish you'd stay home, take this more seriously, take better care of yourself.”

“You sound like I'm going on a bender or something, Jubes. I'm going to get tipsy, get fucked by some hot guy at a club, and then I'll be home. All this,” he said while waving a hand toward the results, “will still be here in the morning. Trust me. I know how this goes. I've already done it once.”

“Okay. Yeah. You're an adult. If that's what you need right now, then I guess that's what you should do. You'll be careful, right? Having cancer isn't an excuse to have a bareback gang bang and risk getting HIV or who knows what else.”

He cupped her chin to force her gaze up, brushing a thumb across a high cheekbone. “Everything's going to be fine. This sucks, but I gotta live my life for as long as I've got to live it, you understand? 'Cause I don't know what's gonna happen tomorrow. I only know what's happening right now.”

When she nodded, he pulled her into a tight hug, and they held onto each other.

Part of him wasn't willing to acknowledge the biopsy results. It was too much, too high a mountain, too great a shock to wrap his mind around. Knowing there was a chance of recurrence and actually standing at the cusp of it were two different things, and if he let himself sink into reality, he wasn't sure what he'd do. Nothing good, that was for sure.

So he gave her a long squeeze, said goodnight, and left the apartment with every intention of doing as much damage to his traitor of a body as possible in one night. Because tomorrow, he would have to face the reality of it. Tomorrow, he would have to acknowledge the situation and head to his appointment with his oncologist.

That was what brought him to Cryostasis. It was some pretentious new club people had been raving about for its chill atmosphere. The interior was dimly lit like all clubs, but the crowd was a little light considering it was a weekday. A handsome couple dominated the dance floor, some red head picking her way through an intricate tango with a dishwater blond.

Bucky didn't pay them much mind, choosing instead to go straight to the bar where he ordered the house special, something called a Brainwasher. It boasted a barely-legal alcohol content served in a frosted mug. The bartender tried to sell him a spiel about the glasses being stored in cryostasis.

He wasn't terribly impressed with that line, but the drink itself went down smooth and tasty, and while he waited for a second, he turned around to lean against the bar.

He saw him there, Steve Rogers, with his elbows on the bar top and a beer in front of him. The guy looked deep in the throes of contemplation, so Bucky would have left him alone were it not for Steve glancing up in time to make eye contact.

Steve's eyes widened. A genuine sort of smile did something sinful to his mouth, and he saluted Bucky with his beer bottle.

Why the fuck not, Bucky thought to himself. His Captain America tolerance was much lower than his Steve Rogers tolerance, and the guy seemed to be at a loose end in a social situation. That was how he justified it to himself when he moved down the bar. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Steve's shirt stretched across his muscles anymore than the way the gold stubble on his cheeks would probably leave behind a lovely kiss of beard burn.

“You stalking me?” asked Bucky.

“Just my good luck, I guess. By the way, Stark heard your podcast today. I think he almost had a heart attack when you pointed out whose daughter Justine Finnigan was.”

He couldn't swallow a broad smile. “Really? Now isn't that something.”

“What brings you out on this fine Wednesday?”

“I'm looking to drink and get fucked.” Never let it be said that Bucky Barnes beat around any bushes.

Poor Steve choked on his sip of beer, prompting Bucky to thump him between his shoulder blades to help bring it back up. He hadn't meant to make the guy choke to death.

“Is that so?” he asked when his coughing died off.

“That's so. Wish me luck.”

Rogers did not wish him luck. In fact, when Bucky turned to look at him while grinding up against some twink in skinny jeans, he sported an uncertain scowl and looked in every direction but in Bucky's. 

Wasn't that interesting? Could be it was garden variety envy. He couldn't stand seeing his greatest critic having fun when he was a stuffy old sourpuss who wouldn't know fun if it squatted on his face.

Something told him that wasn't the case, though, and that something turned out to be the twink's inability to obey the standard rules of dancing. The guy had arms like an octopus. Every time he grabbed Bucky's crotch or ass, Bucky moved said hands to safer territory.

Dancing was fine. It was a physical sort of activity that required close, personal contact, but it did not require non-consensual groping when he was giving all the signals of being uncomfortable with said groping. Freaking men. Thought they could get away with inappropriately touching other men as long as they weren't being called out by women for doing the same.

Then, a shadow loomed over them.

“Sir, I'm going to kindly ask you to take your hand off his dick.”

The twink looked up. And up. And up some more. Brown eyes practically glazed over after seeing the Eighth Wonder of the World standing over him, and Bucky groaned. He groaned and face-palmed. He had a feeling taking Steve to a gay bar would be like leaving the crown jewels of England unguarded in Times Square. Steve was a solar eclipse; you couldn't help marveling over all that body.

Only it wasn't the twink Steve addressed once said twink had been warned off; it was Bucky.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.” He made eye contact and felt something twitch inside his tired, old soul. So that was what Cinderella felt like when Prince Charming came to save her from her wicked step-mother.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

Another dancer complained about them taking up space on the dance floor, so he threaded his arm around Steve's waist and started moving to the music. “Some people are just so grabby. Being out looking for a date doesn't mean I want just anyone touching me, you know.”

Steve looked uncomfortable himself and moved stiffly and against the beat of the music.

“Are you okay? You look like someone stuck you with an electric cow prod.”

A grimace marred Steve's face, something between embarrassment and discomfort. “I don't really know how to dance. Arnie, this guy I hung with back when-- You know, I never know how to describe that. Back home? Back in the thirties? How do you put that into verbal context for people?”

“Hey,” he said while rubbing small circles into Steve's back with his hand, “how about 'when I was growing up?' Nobody's got a right to know the exact context of when you grew up, you know.”

He paused momentarily, an emotion Bucky couldn't name softening his features. “When I was growing up. I like that.”

“So go on. You were telling about Arnie and how you can't dance for shit.”

“Well, he loved hanging at the local dives and tried to teach me how to dance. Said I had two left feet, and one of them was a club foot.”

“Wait, did you really have a club foot?”

Steve laughed, and it was like sunshine. “No! That was just something Arnie used to say.”

“Well, I got news for you, pal, dancing isn't what it used to be. All that formal crap you used to get up to? Most people don't put that much effort into it anymore. Think of it as sort of free-form. Just find the beat and move however you want to.”

Arnie was right; Steve was atrocious. He had no musicality and couldn't find a beat to save his life, but it sure as Hell was fun figuring that out, much to Bucky's surprise. And the thing was that Steve loved dancing. Once he loosened up and stopped worrying about what everyone thought of him, he learned how much he enjoyed moving. His face lit up with the simple joy of it.

And Bah Humbug Bucky felt his heart grow three sizes that day.

They were particularly good at the robot dance together. The way Steve could move his body was incredible, how he went from the jerky movements of the robot into a swivel of his hips was particularly intriguing, and before long, the dance floor had cleared out to give them space to move, and not a single person looked more than once at the empty sleeve of Bucky's shirt.

Then the song ended, and the place broke out into cheers. Steve's face flushed with pink as his confidence bled into shyness. That was when Bucky figured it out, recognized the mantel of Captain America for what it was: a costume Steve slipped into whenever he was on stage. The real Steve Rogers was much less a showman.

Bucky went home with Steve. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when something sparked between them. It wasn't anything as cliché as gazing deeply into his eyes and knowing they were meant to spend the night together. Steve's place was on the way home for Bucky, so he stopped outside on the front stoop to say goodbye.

The next thing he knew, they were kissing and stumbling their way up the stairs to Steve's bedroom, passing rooms filled with renovation materials in states of half-repair. There wasn't time to say much about the place. He was too busy delving his tongue into Steve's hot mouth to worry about that, too busy sliding his hand beneath Steve's shirt and reveling in the heat and smoothness of his skin, the firmness of all that muscle beneath his kneading fingers.

A trail of clothes led into the bedroom where Bucky fell back onto the mattress and beckoned Steve, who followed him, and there, just like that. The weight of Steve pressing him into the mattress, holding him pinned to the Earth when he otherwise might have floated away. He moaned.

Sweat-damp skin slid together, and the next thing he knew, Steve's cock was lined up with his, allowing them to rut against each other. Having his cock trapped between their bodies flushed him with heat and want. The pressure, the silken glide as it skimmed alongside Steve's made him tremble, made him clutch Steve's ass and dig fingers into the generous mound of flesh.

“Fuck me,” he rasped. “God, please fuck me. I want to feel you for days.”

Steve scraped his teeth over Bucky's throat and rumbled something that resonated through his whole body, all the flesh and bone making Bucky feel safe and protected. Steve reached over to the nightstand and opened the drawer to pull out a bottle of half-empty lube and a box of condoms.

But he paused rather than immediately getting to it. He braced himself on his elbows and looked down at him with such a tender expression it made Bucky ache. His fingertips traced the ridge of Bucky's cheekbone, skimmed across an eyebrow, and tickled down until it grazed his bottom lip.

He opened his mouth and sucked the fingertip inside, causing Steve to groan.

“I'll be good to you,” murmured Steve. “Do you want that? Do you want me to be good to you?”

“Yes,” breathed Bucky, and he almost couldn't stand it, the ache in his chest caused by Steve's tenderness, by the way Steve looked down at him with such intensity that it should have been painful, being the center of all that attention. It wasn't. Not at all.

Fingers wet with lube traced the rim of his hole and eased inside. Bucky arched his back, reaching for more kisses that were immediately granted. “Feels good,” he said.

Steve waited for that moment before pressing in down to the third knuckle. He crooked his finger then and rubbed up against the bundle of tissue that was Bucky's prostate.

“There,” he gasped, “right there. Please, don't stop.”

A second finger joined the first, and oh, the all-consuming desire. Being filled up with Steve's thick fingers was enough to make him arch into the touch, enough to make him yearn for something more.

That want was fulfilled when Steve rolled on the condom, lubed himself, and pressed into the damp heat of Bucky's body. Steve groaned, his head thrown back, the long column of his throat on display, and Bucky couldn't resist leaning up and sucking a mark into the flesh there.

Once inside, they both paused long enough for him to adjust to the intrusion. He felt so full. His body couldn't accommodate Steve and oxygen, and so he was breathless, punch-drunk with being filled and surrounded and protected and wanted.

His hand slid around Steve's waist and skated up a back damp with sweat to clutch Steve's shoulder blade. He didn't feel vulnerable by pressing his stump against his lover's exposed skin, and he breathed, “I'm ready. God, you feel so good.”

Steve moved. Gently at first, with a slow rock of his hips that barely pulsed his cock inside Bucky's hole, but it was enough. It was enough to make Bucky gasp, enough make his fingernails dig into the muscle of Steve's back, to make his teeth clench into the meat of Steve's pectoral muscle.

Each time Steve punched into his body, he moaned. There was no stopping it. He wanted Steve to know how good he made him feel, and as they picked up their pace, they exchanged breathy kisses that made his lips tingle. They shared their exhalations.

Bucky locked his ankles around Steve's back and whispered, “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

“Never,” Steve returned before diving for another kiss that was all tongue and teeth and heat and need.

Between the pressure against his prostate and the way his cock was cradled between their bellies, it didn't take long. He grabbed Steve's hand and laced their fingers together so he could squeeze something when the orgasm mounted and crested, when he came with a soft cry and his cock pulsed ropes of semen between their bodies.

Above him, Steve gritted his teeth, face rigid with intensity. He drove forward again and again and one more time before freezing in position, his pelvis clamped tightly against Bucky's ass. When he came, it was like the sun reemerging after an eclipse. The tension faded away, leaving something bright and open and so, so warm.

It terrified Bucky for its beauty.

After, they collapsed into each other, and Bucky swallowed and swallowed again the sudden regret creeping into his throat. He didn't regret sleeping with Steve. He regretted sleeping with Captain America and knew the instant Steve disappeared behind the veil that was his armor.

“I'm sorry,” said Steve. “I'm so, so sorry. This shouldn't have happened. I-- We shouldn't have.”

“Oh God, save the 'it's not you, it's me' speech,” he said while throwing back the blanket.

“No, it's not--” Steve swallowed. “I can't do this with you. Being with me, it's no real life. I'm still overcoming so much after waking after seventy years, and I'm not ready for any sort of real relationship. Plus, the paparazzi have been after me. That's not a life normal people want.”

Bucky jumped up and started gathering his clothing. “I got news for you, pal, not everyone who has sex these days wants to go steady. Pretty sure our generation didn't invent casual sex, so stuff it. This was just--” Hell, he didn't know what it was. Insanity? A break with reality?

“I don't want you--”

“I'll show myself out.”

He dressed as quickly as he could, frustration making him bark at Steve, who offered to help when he had trouble doing up his pants. Because he was a one-armed freak who couldn't get dressed by himself or something. He made himself decent and was sure to slam Steve's bedroom door in a resounding sort of way before stomping downstairs. Once outside, he collapsed back against the brick.

“Stupid,” he snarled. “How stupid can you be, Barnes?”

It was fine, he reassured himself. Everything was fine. He hadn't wanted anything lasting with Steve either, even if he had been able to accept Captain America. Because he had leukemia, and the chances of surviving a second bout of cancer were much less than the first. He had no business getting involved with someone when his lease on life was being called due.


	4. There's Blood On My Hands And My Lips Are Unclean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Steve has retail therapy, Bucky visits his sister in prison, and Tony falls in pansexual love with Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from the song "River" by Leon Bridges

They were fighting thorn bushes in upstate New York. An archaeological dig near the border bent on documenting and preserving an Iroquois sacred site had accidentally released a nature spirit. Said spirit had taken one look at the farm lands and modern construction and gone on a rampage in defense of Mother Nature, someone he referred to as Gaea.

Hence, humanoid-shaped thorn bushes. They wouldn't have been terribly dangerous to fight what with the impenetrable armor that made up Avengers tactical gear were it not for their ability to sprout vines that could worm through the smallest chink in armor.

One vine burrowed under Steve's skin and separated flesh from muscle like a turkey on a meat slicer. He couldn't swallow a scream that escaped. Black Widow came to his rescue by severing the vine from its bush. It wiggled around beneath his skin for a full minute before dying.

Moments later, the bush exploded after being hit by one of Hawkeye's arrows. 

“You going to pay more attention, or would you like to sit this one out?” asked Nat.

He grimaced at her but carried on with the battle.

They all went home exhausted and covered in various scrapes and cuts while Stark laughed at them.

“You guys should get one of these suits,” he crowed. “Oh. Right. They're patented to Tony Stark with a limited run of one, and good luck prying him outta this bad boy when sentient thorn bushes are around. Too bad. So sad. I win. You lose. Who wants a drink? What's that? You can't drink until you've been seen by the doctor?”

“I know someone who's sleeping on the sofa tonight,” Pepper said as she passed through the common room. “Too bad. So sad. I win. You lose.”

“What? No. Come on, baby. Let's talk about this.” Tony's voice faded as he disappeared down a hallway with Ms. Potts, leaving the rest of the Avengers snickering behind him.

Steve was called to the infirmary when a doctor was free and sat on an exam table while they made an incision the length of his forearm to extract the dead vine. Pulling it out wasn't an option. The barbed thorns would have caused more damage coming out than a surgical incision.

When Nat was finished with her own exam, she came and sat beside him. “So what's up with you?”

“Nothing.

“Do you honestly believe we take your word at face value anymore, Mr. My Foot Was Almost Severed But I'm Fine?”

“That was one time, and it wasn't almost severed. There was still enough blood flow to reattach the foot, which means it wasn't dangling by a ligament or anything. There were enough veins left intact to keep the limb viable.”

Nat expelled a bark of laughter. “Semantics, dear. The point is that you always claim you're fine, and we stopped believing you about thirty 'fines' ago.”

“It's just--” He wasn't exactly sure how to respond and finally said, “It's just personal problems.”

“Would it have anything to do with that cutie you hooked up with at Cryostasis?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“He treat you all right? Do I need to stab him repeatedly?”

That was enough to make Steve laugh. Nat's ultimate show of affection was whether or not she would stab someone on your behalf. It was cute in a morbid sort of way.

“No, nothing like that. We're just-- I really felt something with him, but we're two different people without enough in common to make perusing a relationship worth our effort.”

She hummed to say she was listening.

“What? What's that supposed to mean? How am I supposed to maintain a meaningful conversation with you when all you do is hum your half?”

A grin softened her features. “Sounds to me like you're making up excuses. You jumped into Project Rebirth on blind faith alone--”

“And desperation,” he interrupted.

“Blind faith and desperation. So it seems to me like you're the ultimate glass is half full sort of guy. Where's all this negativity coming from?”

“It's not negativity, it's realism.”

She reached over and patted his leg before saying, “Realism doesn't suit you. I'm the resident realist on the team. Tony's the dreamer. Bruce is the moody teenager going through puberty hormone surges. Clint's the chill dude you smoke pot with. Thor is.... Well, Thor's something. And you're the idealist. You're the guy who keeps us on the straight and narrow, because if we don't, you pull your Captain America is disappointed in you face, and we feel like we've kicked a pile of puppies.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

“See, that one right there. That's the look.” She mimicked him.

He eventually broke down and chuckled.

“What I'm saying is that if you feel something for this guy, you should give it a chance no matter how much you think it might fail. You'll never really know until you try.”

“I thought you were the realist.”

“Enough to realize it's impractical and unhealthy for a guy like you to spend the rest of his life alone. Broody and alone doesn't suit you either. You do better when you have people to care about.”

“I care about you.”

Her expression softened again, and she sat up straighter to press a kiss to his cheek. “And we all care about you. Now chin up and get changed. Me, you, and Pepper are going for some retail therapy.”

At that, Steve's eyes brightened.

Having come from an era where every penny counted, he wasn't used to being surrounded by abundance, the sort of abundance that saw him collecting a multimillion dollar settlement from the army to make up for the back pay he should have received if he hadn't been frozen in ice. Not to mention the multiple endorsement checks from various companies who thought the symbol of Captain America had become public domain upon his supposed death.

So the short and skinny of it was that Steve had money running out his ears, and while he was generous in donating to various organizations he thought meaningful, he was still in the phase where he wanted to buy everything. Splurging, according to Bruce, was a good way to treat oneself.

Pepper and Nat kissed his cheek when they met him in the parking garage where Happy pulled up in one of Stark's cars. Steve got the door for the ladies before Happy could, prompting a grimace and a quick “You're gonna put me out of a job, Captain” from Happy.

Where was the best place for upscale shopping in Manhattan? Fifth Avenue. Happy let them out in front of Gucci, and Steve wandered into the store behind the ladies. His companions went straight to the shoes while he wandered around for a few minutes fending off the staff members who kept trying to interest him in various wares.

He wound up purchasing a stylish satchel for transporting his sketchbooks and various pencils. Sure, something cheaper would have sufficed, but he deserved elegant things, and spending money back into the economy was always more of a benefit to the whole community than hording it in various bank accounts under the watchful eyes of the financial specialists Pepper had selected for him.

After, he dropped into a chair to serve as cheerleader while Pepper and Nat tried on different shoes. For some reason, they valued his opinion. Maybe because he was honest and refused to flatter their ego by telling them ugly shoes looked good on them, and boy were there some ugly shoes in the world of high end fashion. How ladies didn't break their necks in high heels was a mystery.

It was a mystery that was solved when they dragged him into a specialty shop some time later that catered to drag queens. They found heels that would fit Steve inside and made him clomp around the boutique in them. He wobbled from side to side. Miss Lola and Miss Ruthie couldn't stop their giggles and immediately took him under their wing to teach him how to balance. 

They also tried selling him some rather daring underwear. He said no to the racy red shoes but yes to a pair of silky panties because they felt amazing against his skin. If he pictured Bucky divesting him of his pants, finding the underwear, and riding him like a bronco, then no one had to know, right?

They left the store practically in tears from laughing so hard and promising Miss Lola and Miss Ruthie to come back soon. Both drag queens were lovely souls who made him feel good about himself.

Then it was back to Fifth Avenue. One the way past Trump Tower, Pepper retrieved a tube of lipstick and scrawled “racist, misogynist, tax evader” across a panel of glass.

Steve's ears turned red, but protesting and defacing public property was something he was well-versed in. He took the lipstick and added “Grump Tower: Home of the Troll King.”

All three of them took off running when security came out. They disappeared down the sidewalk into the Fifth Avenue crowd and were still laughing when they headed into Saks. That was where they spent the bulk of their time.

Steve got comfortable in a chair while a personal shopper selected various garments for the ladies to try on. He vetoed a pair of high-waisted trousers that made Nat look frumpy but insisted she buy a jacket in a military style that did exceptional things to her waist and hips.

Pepper, who stepped out wearing a simple, white dress that accentuated her curves asked, “How are you so good at women's fashion but dress the way you do?” She indicated his check shirt and plain jeans. “There is something to be said for classic denim, but that shirt does nothing for you.”

He rubbed the nape of his neck and smiled sheepishly. His tongue tripped over that hated phrase of “back when,” so he remembered Bucky's advice at the last second. “When I was a young man, I worked at Saks doing the window displays and advertising art. Did you know Saks helped pioneer the idea of the window display?”

Both women were eager to listen, but Pepper was the one who asked, “Wasn't that in the middle of the Great Depression?”

“Everyone except the ultra wealthy suffered during the Great Depression, but the store was able to stay open because of its high end clients. That means I kept a job right up until I got involved with Project Rebirth. That doesn't mean the pay was outstanding. The unions did amazing work, but the window display guys and artists weren't high paid positions.”

“It's a shame they don't include stuff like that in the history books,” Nat commented.

He responded with his head down, “They don't include a lot about Steve Rogers.”

It was later, after he'd fulfilled his duty as pack mule and after distributing the gifts he'd picked up for various people—Abril Reyes, who was in charge of cleaning his apartment at the tower, burst into tears when he gave her two new Chromebooks for her school-aged children—that he collapsed on his sofa and turned on Bucky's podcast.

_“Hiya, guys, gals, and everyone in between. I'm gonna apologize right off the bat. It was a tough day at work. My boss is riding my ass, and my best friend (who also happens to be my roommate) is being a mother hen. Honestly, can't a guy get a chance to breathe?_

_“Anyhow, I got this call today at the insurance center from this sweet old guy. Seriously. This guy asked me how my day was, wanted to be reassured that I had someone to spend the upcoming holidays with, that sort of thing. Guy's a veteran of the Vietnam War, and I don't think he really has anyone in his life to talk to. Now, normally, a long telephone call of such a personal nature is frowned upon by the company. I'm there to work, not hold hands with an old dude, blah blah blah, but my boss feels extra sorry for me around this time of year, so she lets me get away with it._

_“Long story short, this guy was trying to file a claim with his Superhuman Disaster Insurance. Basically, his father's mint condition 1914 Dodge Touring vehicle got destroyed. Now, some of you might say, it's just a car. At least the guy's house wasn't leveled, but this guy idolizes his father, who died during the Great War, and it's his only memento of him._

_“Oh, I forgot to say that the incident happened when one of these street level vigilantes got thrown into the vehicle by garden variety thieves. It turns out, the Queens Patriot caught them in the act of robbing an ATM then engaged in a high speed chase into a residential neighborhood instead of, you know, calling the cops. It ended with the Queens Patriot being thrown through the vet's car, which he'd parked outside while the floor of his garage was resurfaced._

_“With the way laws are written, our company won't cover the damage. I tried to put it through so this guy could at least recoup enough money to have the vehicle repaired, but higher ups say it falls under the jurisdiction of civilian cops. You know, because normal thugs threw a superhuman through his car._

_“So I have to tell this Vietnam Vet who's been nothing but sweet to me that his policy won't cover the damages. The guy breaks down into tears over the phone talking about his dad, and by the end of it, I'm full of tears and snot and all kinds of disgusting things._

_“So I guess the moral of today's podcast is that we need to do something to get these street-level superhuman thugs under control. We don't allow our cops to engage in high speed chases through residential areas anymore given how easily they cause damage and injury to bystanders, but we're gonna allow vigilantes to get away with the same?_

_“They get out there and think they're hot shit and are going to do so much good for the community and get their names up in giant lights on the Manhattan skyline, but they aren't trained for this shit. They go through zero training and wind up causing more harm than good. How many houses have to be destroyed? How many people have to lose their shirts because their vehicles are destroyed?_

_“And what are the Avengers doing about it except inciting a following of kids dressed up in their pajamas and bedsheets prowling the streets thinking they can take down bad guys. What happens when people start dying? Who's going to tell the parents of these kids when they run into someone with a gun who's more than happy to blow their heads off?_

_“Man, I hate hero-worship and the Avengers mania that's gripped New York._

_“Tell me what you think._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute.”_

Steve pressed both hands over his face and exhaled. Bucky wasn't wrong, that was the thing. Untrained kids had no business out there trying to fight crime. They would most likely wind up dead, and if they didn't die, they would cause enormous stress in their surrounding communities.

That was one of the things he admired so much about Bucky. His opinion might not be popular in current media, but he wasn't afraid to say it and hope he made a difference.

The facts were that people looked up to the Avengers. There was a certain level of idolizing going on, and people rising up and taking the law into their own hands had always been a popular notion. Especially when law enforcement precincts were understaffed and under-trained and took so long to respond to the calls they received.

So Bucky wasn't wrong. Steve just didn't know what to do about it, and before he really had a chance to consider things, they were out on another mission. 

This time, it was the Brotherhood of Mutants. Normally, missions involving the Brotherhood fell into the hands of the X-Men. Mutants would rather police their own community than allow outsiders to get involved, and Steve could understand that given how much anti-mutant sentiment dominated the media, but this time, the X-Men were already engaged on another front.

The Avengers stepped in to fill the gap when Magneto and his misfits attacked Madison Square Gardens. The arena was at max capacity, the place crammed with teenagers and their parents attending a concert headlined by a popular mutant singer. It seemed counter productive for Magneto to take offense, but that guy's beliefs tended toward extreme. Something about mutants selling out and allowing themselves to become objects of public consumption.

Whatever the case, it became clear fairly quickly they were walking into a disaster.

As an Avenger, as the leader of the Avengers, he was aware that the difficult decisions fell to him. He would rather shoulder them himself than allow anyone else on his team to live with the consequences. Most of them had enough past regrets to live with.

So when the battle turned sour, when it became apparent there was no getting out of the situation without mass human casualties, he was the one who called it. He was the one who directed the Avengers toward stopping Magneto instead of saving lives because if they didn't stop him there, he would go on to kill thousands more.

*

Cuddled on his couch beneath a blanket, Jubilee gone for the evening with Anjali, Bucky flicked through various television stations to find something mindless to watch. What he settled on was information coming in on the current crisis at Madison Square Gardens. Hundreds were dead. The arena was in ruins. Magneto had been taken into custody by S.H.I.E.L.D operatives.

Captain America stood in the midst of the carnage, shoulders drooped, head bowed, a lonely figure amongst the devastation. It wasn't until the guy turned to face the camera that Bucky could see how absolutely wrecked he was. Tears had smeared tracks through dirt on his face.

Iron Man got between the captain and media personnel to prevent them from surrounding him, but Steve eased Iron Man aside, shoulders visibly straightening and a mask descending.

“Intelligence indicated the Brotherhood of Mutants had installed explosive devices in surrounding neighborhoods,” Steve began, “that would have led to untold casualties and damage to our infrastructure. As a result of this information, our mission became one to apprehend the terrorists and diffuse the explosive devices. At this point, S.H.I.E.L.D demolitions experts have completed the removal of the explosive devices, and we don't expect any further attack.”

Something sarcastic perched on his lips, but he didn't have the heart to say it, not with the devastation so clear on Steve's face. After his statement, Iron Man whisked him away from the horde of reporters littering the scene, and S.H.I.E.L.D took over processing the site.

And Bucky? Bucky sat numbly on his sofa tearing himself in half. Part of him detested that more violence had taken place in his city, violence that had caused hundreds of people to die. Another part... God, he couldn't stop thinking about how Steve had looked.

So the last thing he expected was for someone to knock on his door, and the last thing he considered was that Captain America, still dressed in his battle-scarred suit, the shield still on his back, to be standing outside. He reeked of sweat and soot, of misery and the cost of disaster.

But when Steve stumbled, Bucky caught him as best he could to support some of his weight, caught him and pulled him inside the apartment to manhandle him onto the sofa. Bucky got him a glass of water that Steve ignored. He pried the shield from its harness and settled it beside the sofa. He threw a blanket around broad shoulders when Steve started trembling.

Shock.

Who the Hell wouldn't be shocked going through something like that.

Then, Steve spoke. “I couldn't--” He choked on a miserable noise and looked down at his hands. “I couldn't do the right thing. I couldn't save them. So many more would have died. I couldn't save them.” That was when he broke. A sob escaped him. He hunched his shoulders. It looked like a mountain crumbled in on itself, like a black hole opened up inside Steve Rogers and sucked him in.

“Hey,” Bucky said, lunging across the sofa to catch the guy when he looked like he was going to slide off the sofa. “Don't do that to yourself, okay? You're a man, Steve. You're just a man.”

Steve couldn't choke out any words between the desperate noises he made. Rather, he curled himself against Bucky's chest and allowed the tears to fall, his body jerking with each rough inhale of breath.

And God, what was Bucky supposed to do? He'd never had someone fall apart in his embrace before. What was he supposed to do? All he could do was hold Steve, hold him and smooth his filthy hair away from his forehead in the hopes of offering some kind of comfort. Because at the end of the day, Steve wasn't Captain America. He was Steve Rogers. He was a guy carrying all that weight on shoulders that surely would break at some point.

Eventually, he got Steve to calm down enough to remove his uniform. Eventually, he got some water into the guy. Eventually, he encouraged Steve to stretch out on the sofa while Bucky got him a warm wash cloth to wipe the soot, tears, and snot off his face. And eventually, Steve fell into an exhausted slumber, his head in Bucky's lap while Bucky combed fingers through his hair.

Steve was gone in the morning along with every trace that he'd ever been in the apartment. Bucky couldn't say if he was disappointed or relieved. Dealing with someone that emotional was never easy, especially when he didn't have a handle on his own emotions half the time. The only thing he knew for certain was that beneath Captain America, Steve Rogers was a man, and that man felt every blow, took on every ounce of the world's guilt. He was going to collapse one day soon.

The incident, though, faded from his mind over the following couple of weeks as he concentrated on his own dilemma. His oncologist wanted to start treatments right away, but Bucky was dragging his heels, unsure if he should even bother with chemotherapy. It was a decision he didn't intend to share with his sister when he went to visit her at the prison.

Bedford Hills Correctional looked like an old Victorian building with a red brick facade. Chain link fencing and razor wire protected the outside world from those housed within, and there was a notable need for that given it was the only maximum security prison for women in the state of New York.

Jubilee dropped him off in her Ford sedan, and he looked up and up and up some more, feeling the overwhelming intimidation of the structure. He'd been there before, of course. Becca had been sentenced to multiple life terms back in two thousand and eight when he was only sixteen and still living in the foster care system, so he came as often as he could.

She was waiting for him in the visitation room by the time he processed through and joined her. She looked good, better than she ever had living on the streets and running around with the gang. Her color wasn't sallow. Gaunt cheeks had filled out. Dark hair shone with the luster of health. It was then he realized his sister would have died were it not for being arrested and sent to prison. The heroine addiction had been killing her slowly but surely.

“Buck!” she cried with enthusiasm. “This is a great surprise.”

He walked into her outstretched arms and breathed in the scent of his older sister, something underneath the smell of cheap soap and laundry detergent that was a unique combination of her pheromones. Memories haunted him, of pressing himself into her comfort while in the hospital undergoing chemo and radiation the first time around.

Maybe he was clingier than normal, and maybe that was what gave it away. Whatever the reason, she eased back, hands on his shoulders, to gaze at him with the sort of inner peace and steadiness she'd never possessed before.

“Hey, Kiddo. What's wrong?”

“Just--” he stopped and pressed his face deeper into her shoulder.

Only when he'd found some semblance of calm did he ease back and take the seat across from her. He studied her for a moment, marveling in the changes since last he'd seen her. Of course, nothing could erase the various tattoos decorating her face and knuckles nor the hammerhead shark tattooed on the inside of her wrist, but she seemed settled, content.

“You look really good,” he finally said.

She smiled. “They have a program here. We take care of rescue dogs, try to socialize them so they can be adopted out.” Face lighting up, she pulled a stack of paper from her pocket and showed him a picture of her crouching beside a mutt that looked like a sheepdog somehow bred with a bath loofah. It was hair and eyes and paws and more hair, and Becca was gazing at the dog adoringly.

“That's too cute for words,” he responded.

“Her name's Magellan, but I just call her Maggie.”

Silence fell between them. For as much as he loved his sister, he sometimes didn't know how to talk to her. They'd spent so much of their lives apart that he wasn't sure how their pieces fit together anymore. 

Eventually, he said, “The Leukemia is back.”

Her expression crumbled. “Oh, Bucky. No.” She reached across the table to take hold of his hands. “Dr. García's sure?”

“Yeah. He already performed the biopsy.” He tightened his fingers around hers, clutching them until his knuckles went white.

“When do you start chemo? Jubilee still lives with you, right? She can help you get back and forth to your appointments. Fuck. If I wasn't locked up in here...”

“Well I guess you should have thought about that before you murdered people,” he snapped.

She cringed.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep flinging that in your face.”

“When the gang takes you in, you never think to yourself 'I'm going to shoot people and get sent to prison.' It never starts out that way.”

“That's just how it finishes,” he said.

They both paused, unsure what to say or how bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

Bucky broke it by saying, “I'm not going to take the chemo. I'm going to let the cancer run its course.”

“What?” She turned breathless.

“I've already been through this once, remember? The chances of me beating it a second time are much lower. You might not remember it, but I do, the weeks and months spent confined to the hospital. Becca, that's no life. But if I can enjoy a few good months before the cancer catches up with me, then that's more than I can hope for.”

“Baby, baby, you can't talk like that,” she exclaimed while gripping his hand again. “You've got to get those treatments started. Stop thinking like the end's already decided when it's not. So you go in for a few months of chemo, and that sucks, but what if it works? What if it works, Buck?”

“What if it works? Then my sister still spends the rest of her life in prison. My best friend finally gets her degree and moves on. Then what? I'm a miserable asshole. People don't like being around miserable assholes, and I don't want to be alone again. I don't want to be alone.”

And he knows, okay. He knows his inability to get close to people stems from growing up in foster homes where he'd been shuffled between families. Hell, the longest he'd ever lived in one place was ten months, and even then he'd been one of nine kids. It wasn't like he was abused or anything. The foster families had tried their best, but the system was full to bursting with unwanted orphans and too few families able or willing to qualify for providing foster homes. But it didn't change the fact that he was shit with social interactions and couldn't afford to be vulnerable enough to be close with people.

“That still doesn't mean your life ain't worth living,” she said in a small voice, thumb brushing back and forth across his knuckles. “Long as you're alive, you've got a chance to be better. You're dead, and that chance drops to zero.”

When he didn't respond, she continued, “Please, baby. I know I did wrong by you, okay? Getting involved with the gang and getting thrown in here, and if I was out there, I could hold your hand and help you through this, but you still gotta try for me. 'Cause you don't want to be me.”

“Be you?”

“I gave up, baby. Stopped fighting the good fight and found ways to medicate myself with heroine, 'cause I didn't want to live with the sadness no more. Mom and Pops, they were sad too. It's in our blood, baby boy. Depression's in our blood.”

“Depression?”

“It don't even gotta be sadness. It could be just not caring. Like how you don't care if you live or die.”

It was like a proverbial beam of sunshine illuminated his surroundings. Depression didn't have to manifest as sadness or the acute desire to die. He'd never heard that before. Neither had he known their parents also suffered from the mental illness.

“I didn't know that.”

“So you listen here and you listen good.” She brought his knuckles to her lips. “You gotta fight, baby boy, and you gotta fight hard. 'Cause you've got a chance out of all us Barneses to beat this thing and live happy and healthy. You hear me? You take that chance, and you run.”

Nothing could stop the tears that dripped down his face. It started with one, that single raindrop that splashed across an upturned nose. Then it brought more, and Becca was there to wipe his tears away and pull him into the warmth of her body.

“I will.” His response was muffled against her bosom. “I'll fight hard.”

Fighting hard meant showing up to work the following day in order to continue his normal routine. The second he sat down at his cubicle, Jubilee looked over with a raised brow. He responded by touching his watch to indicate he had an appointment later with his oncologist.

His first call came through.

“Thank you for calling Superhuman Disaster Insurance: New York Division, Bucky Barnes speaking. How can I help you?”

“My air conditioner was destroyed by Daredevil and the Punisher. Funny how they can get up and walk away unscathed, but my central unit received the worst of the damage. Goddamn vigilantes. Did you hear about that accident at the ferry? That spider kid damn near killed everyone.”

“And what's the name and policy number on your account, sir?” Bucky typed it in as his caller rattled it off and pulled up his information. “Oh, I'm sorry. Your policy doesn't cover air conditioners.”

“Pardon?”

“Your policy covers damage from things like volcanoes, earthquakes, a zombie apocalypse.”

“Zombie... apocalypse.”

“Covered!”

Beat.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry, sir. I've just always wanted to say that over the phone.”

Thankfully, his caller laughed rather than getting angry.

“Let's see, have you uploaded photos of the damage via our app?”

“Yes.”

“Great! I will take a look at those photos, assess the damage, and get back with you regarding whether or not we can cover that for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Better check and make sure there aren't zombies outside your office window.”

Bucky laughed; he couldn't help it. Most callers wouldn't have tolerated his shenanigans. “Thank you for calling, Sir, and you have yourself a wonderful day.”

No more than three seconds passed after ending the call before Ms. Shapandar bellowed, “Barnes!”

He rose. Jubilee cocked her head and raised one shoulder. He shrugged in response before making his way to the lair of the beast. Richard sat at his desk outside, eyes vacant like Anne Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada. It was the look of all assistants who dreaded the sound of their own names.

Bucky dropped into the chair across from her. “If this is about that call I just had, I can explain everything. It involved a momentary lapse of sanity. No. Stress. My doctor says I mustn't stress myself out right now. I'm at a delicate stage.”

She glowered at him over the tops of her stylish reading glasses, clearly unimpressed with his saltiness. “You're on special assignment. Justin Hammer wants separate policies, one for his various businesses and another for personal property, and he asked for you personally. I tried to explain you were an adjuster and not involved with writing policies, but he insisted.”

“That is unusual.” He opened the file she uploaded onto his tablet.

“If this is too much, tell me, and I'll handle it personally.”

“It's not. Too much, that is.”

“When do you start treatments?”

“Next week.”

“You'll let me know when your schedule needs adjusting.”

His smile was soft, and he said, “Sure thing, boss” before backing from her office. Most people at the office didn't know yet. Just Jubilee and Karima. He really didn't feel like spreading it around and having people looking at him with pity. Sympathy was one thing, but people so often went overboard with it when he just wanted people to treat him normally.

Having cancer didn't mean he wanted to be anything but normal. In fact, he needed that sort of normal to somehow help him cling to the world as it was, so he had no plans to release an inter-office memo, and when he became too weak to work, he'd simply fade into the background.

Later that afternoon, he left the office with Jubilee, his briefcase slung over his shoulder so his hand was available to open the door for them. Nothing was on the radar that involved superhuman activity, so he wasn't expecting to run into a crime scene on the way home.

The Avengers were there in street clothes, Doctor Banner speaking urgently with the medical examiner as they studied a body in the alley. It appeared from a distance as though both picked out small samples of an unknown fiber from lacerations covering the corpse. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark inspected a white residue left behind on the building's wall and the ghost of a shape imprinted inside the residue.

Bucky was reminded of the atomic shadows left behind in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the ghosts of people killed by Fat Man and Little Boy. Nausea rolled through him. He glanced away, but it was only as they wheeled the body from the alley on a stretcher that he got a good look at the murder victim. The man was in his fifties, white, and had a thick head of black hair. One thing caught his attention: a tattoo covered the guy's wrist. It depicted a hammerhead shark.

An arm around his waist reminded him Jubilee was there. She tugged him in an effort to direct him away from the crime scene. That sounded like a good idea. His joints ached something fierce, but as he turned away, he heard Stark say something that stopped him in his tracks.

“I don't know why we brought Rogers. All he knows how to do is hit things, right? Guy didn't even pass the ninth grade. What's he gonna know about forensic anthropology?”

“Tony,” Steve warned. “I spent more than half the school year sick with scarlet fever and rheumatic fever. How the Hell did you expect me to keep up my grades and school work--”

“Nope, it's canon. Steve Rogers couldn't pass ninth grade. J.A.R.V.I.S, remind me to have that plastered on a billboard where the youth of the world can learn the lesson that school--”

“Hey, asshole!” shouted Bucky. He shook off Jubilee's grip and stormed over, putting himself right up in Tony's face. “Making fun of someone who didn't do well in school? I know you might be some science protege who went to college at sixteen, but back the fuck off.”

“Bucky?” Steve sounded strained.

Stark looked taken aback for all of thirty seconds before collecting himself. “And you are...”

“Someone who refuses to stand around while you disparage a guy's intelligence, especially for reasons that were well beyond his control. An egomaniac with something to prove puts people down. A strong person who is secure in their own skin lifts people up. So what are you? 'Cause I'm thinking you fall under the first category.”

Silence.

When Stark didn't respond, he turned toward Steve. “You don't have to put up with crap like that, Steve. Just because his name is Stark doesn't mean he should get away with being an asshole.”

Steve rested a hand on his shoulder to steer him away from Stark. “That's-- Did you just barrel in here like a knight in shining armor to rescue me from Tony?”

“I don't like bullies,” he said.

“Guys, why don't you head back to the tower without me? I'll meet you there later.”

“And you keep your damn trap shut instead of being a gigantic ass-clown!” Bucky shouted after Tony. 

Stark, Banner's hand on his back guiding him away, said, “Did I just fall in gay love? I think I just fell in gay love. Nobody tell Pepper.”

“Pansexual love!” Steve corrected. Then, a smile on his face, he turned his attention back to Bucky. “Sorry about that. Tony can be a little abrasive.”

“A little?”

“He didn't actually mean to call me stupid.”

“Dr. Phil says that it takes a thousand hugs to make up for one 'you're stupid,'” Bucky claimed. “I don't care if he was joking. He shouldn't joke about people's intelligence like that.”

“Well, that was exciting,” Jubilee interrupted.

Introducing Steve to Jubilee wasn't the terror he'd envisioned, although he should have known better. Jubilee was one of the most unflappable people on the planet when it came to celebrities. She'd once thrown her coat over Chris Evans' head when he'd been recognized and mobbed by fans and led him to safety while admonishing “the guy just wants to buy some bread, people, calm your tits!”

Steve looked better than the last time Bucky had seen him, but that was only to people who didn't look closely. Those who did would notice concealer hiding circles beneath Steve's eyes. They would notice the cracks in his Captain America facade. They would see an intricate mosaic missing its crucial pieces and obscuring the depicted image.

The three of them went to lunch at one of Steve's favorite delis, and he had to admit the place made a mean Reuben. Neither made fun of him for asking for extra sauerkraut. What? He loved the sour tang of the stuff, so much so that his dad used to accuse his mom of having an affair with a German.

Steve and Jubilee dominated the conversation. They were both disgustingly positive. They were rays of sunshine busting through the gloom of low cloud cover, and his doom and gloom vehemently protested. Being around them, though, put a reluctant smile on his face.

Then Steve, the big lug, had to go and drip mustard down his shirt, making him strip down to his white undershirt. Seriously, someone needed to teach Steve Rogers how to dress because that man insisted on buying shirts that were two sizes too small for him, and if Jubilee's elbow slipped off the table and she nearly brained herself, he was good enough not to mention it.

For a few moments, he allowed himself to slip into a fantasy world where this was an every day thing, Sour Puss Bucky out to lunch with Bucket of Sunshine Steve and... Oh what was the name of that horse character Jubilee loved so much on Adventure Time. Lady Rainicorn! Wearing Jubilee's face.

Later, after they'd finished lunch and gone their separate ways, Steve back the tower and Bucky and Jubilee back to their apartment, she laced her arm with his and asked, “Why aren't you dating Steve? I know you want to be.”

“Actually, I'd rather talk about how your exam went. You never said.”

“Well, I think.” 

Not only did Jubilee work full time at the insurance agency and take care of his dumb ass, but she was in graduate school for vertebrate paleontology. One day, he would lose her. She would fly off to unknown parts of the world leading digs that would discover the next species of dinosaur. It was a future he wasn't looking forward to but was still excited on her behalf.

“That didn't stop my adviser from tearing apart my thesis line by line.” She cringed. “That man is intent on ensuring I have zero self-esteem left by the time I get my degree.”

“You? Sugar-pie, you've got an iron clad sense of self. Just remember that, okay? Sure, you'll get things wrong. You're only human after all, but you are incredible.”

“Now, can we get back to why you aren't dating Steve?”

“Actually, I don't.”

“Do too.”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

“Stop!” He huffed a long breath. “He's Captain America, Jubes. No matter what I think of him as a person, living a life where you date a superhero isn't a real life. You'll constantly be waiting for one of his enemies to use you against him. Just ask Pepper Potts. She was abducted by that one guy and turned into molten lava on the off chance Stark could stabilize Extremis.”

No response.

“Could you see me going through that? Bald from chemotherapy, barely able to stand, shitting myself and vomiting all down my front while Snidely Whiplash ties me to the train tracks to lure Captain America into a trap?”

More silence.

“And can we talk about how cruel it would be for us to get involved right now? You know the odds always go down when it comes to surviving a recurrence. I need HDC and then an ASCT. It's going to wreck my body, and it may only result in a few more months of life.”

“I'll donate,” she interrupted. “For your stem cell transplant.”

Whatever lecture he'd been engaged in ended because of course she would. They loved each other, sometimes too much, and he turned to pull her into his arms, breathing in a whiff of her floral perfume. Whatever had he done to deserve a friend like Jubilee?


	5. I Try With My Might But I Just Can't Be Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Steve visits Bucky and everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the song "Can't Be Loved" by Elle King.

If Steve had thought Times Square in the year twenty twelve had been an alien environment, nothing prepared him for Long Island and the spread of mansions. The engine of his bike rumbled between his legs as he passed homes dating back to his time, and the idea that people had lived in so much luxury while Ma had worked her fingers to the bone providing a meager life for him made him sick.

He pulled off into the paved drive of a Greek revival surrounded by lush gardens and a manicured lawn. A spray of delicate, pink hydrangea flanked either side of the carport covering the home's front door, and he dismounted, allowing fingertips to graze the delicate flowers.

A man, dressed sharply in a formal suit, greeted him at the door. “Captain Rogers, it's an honor.”

He accepted the hand shake. Gabriel Jones-Carter was the spitting image of his father, tall and robust with a wide nose and full lips, but his eyes were all Peggy and showcased the alertness he'd inherited from his mother. Gabe Junior didn't miss a thing.

He cupped his free hand over their joined hands and blinked away an unexpected fall of tears. “The honor's mine. I was blessed to serve with your parents.”

“Well, Dad couldn't shut up about you, either, so the feeling was mutual.” Gabriel broke into a wide grin, the same warm openness that had gotten them through some of the toughest times during the war. “Please, come on. Mom's out in the garden and is aware of your visit.”

Stepping inside their home made him feel small, and for the first time since awakening in this new era, he truly felt the passage of years. “This is an incredible home.”

“It wasn't always easy maintaining.”

He could read beneath the comment. Anti-Miscegenation laws hadn't been struck down country-wide until the late nineteen sixties. Maybe New York hadn't had a law forbidding interracial marriages and sex, but that didn't mean it was accepted and people didn't face social retribution. And in the exclusive atmosphere of Long Island? There was no doubt much weeping and gnashing of teeth when the Jones-Carter household established a foothold there.

“Your parents were always fighters and at the forefront of social movements. They were pioneers.”

“Thank for giving them--”

He held up a hand to halt the thanks. “Believe me when I say it was harder for them than it was for me. In the grand scheme of things, I did very little. They're the ones who took the risks.”

Gabriel nodded and touched Steve's shoulder. “And you're everything they said you are. Come on. Annie is bringing tea to the garden, and then we'll give you some privacy.”

The garden was alive, a riot of color and scent as various flowers perfumed the air, and in the middle of it, sitting on a chaise lounge on a cobbled patio was Peggy Carter. Delicate, small, skin turned translucent with age, but still holding the same proud posture.

Stopping the tears proved impossible. He could only brush them away and stride forward to take a knee beside her and accept the skeletal hand she held toward him.

“Steve, my best and truest friend. They told me you'd been found alive. Why didn't you come see me sooner?”

He didn't have a good answer for that, so he told the truth. “I was afraid.”

That caused a chuckle as her fingertips traced the features of his face. “You? Afraid? Tell me another lie, darling, because you haven't experienced a moment of fear in your life.”

“Now that's just not true, Pegs. I nearly peed myself when you slugged Hodges and turned that furious glare upon me like you thought I would open my mouth to look more like one of the guys.”

She laughed again, laughter bleeding into a cough she washed away with a sip of tea. “Who taught you how to lie? Was it Howard's boy?” A delicate hand pressed against her bosom. “That dear boy needs your guidance, Steve. Howard wasn't the best of fathers, you understand. He always lived to regale the world with his past exploits much to Tony's detriment.

“You must understand that Howard lived a life creating implements of war. He was never the same after the Manhattan Project and regarded you as his greatest achievement. He often told me when he'd had too much liquor that for just once in his life, he made a shield to protect instead of a weapon to destroy. So be patient with Tony. He's been compared to you his whole life and found wanting.”

Steve pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Tony's a good man and doesn't need to feel inferior to me.”

“You have that affect on people, darling. We're all running to measure up to your goodness.”

“How are you?” he finally asked.

She hummed before responding, “Alive, so they tell me, but I can be honest with you. Living life in this gilded cage is driving me bonkers. Gabriel and Annie mean well, of course, but an old soldier like me would rather go out fighting.”

Something halfway between a laugh and a sob escaped, and he pressed his mouth to her knuckles again. “You've done so much in your life, Pegs. You showed the world, didn't you.”

The thread of their conversation escaped her without any warning, and she patted his cheek. “Have you spoken to Director Fury? Don't let that man intimidate you, darling. What they did to us during the war is unconscionable, so don't let him bully you into maintaining the status quo.”

“The world knows now. I told them myself, how I'm attracted to men and women.”

Hearing it brought a smile to her face, and she seemed to glow from within. “They convicted us of the sin of being different, didn't they. Your attraction to men and my budding love for Gabe, forced us to deny who we are and the people we love to fit their mold. I'll never forgive them for that and for soiling the beauty of our friendship by making it into something it wasn't.”

“No, sugar pie. Nothing can soil our friendship, you understand? We may have been forced to play roles we didn't sign up for, but that didn't change who are at the core. Your friendship has meant more to me than anything other than my ma.”

“The feeling is mutual, darling.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Annie bringing out fresh tea and treats, and the four of them sat together on the patio trading stories of their past. Annie had followed in the footsteps of her mother by working her way to the upper echelon of the FBI, and Gabriel was an activist and a Nobel Prize winning photographer.

And in a way, it felt like coming home, like none of the decades had passed. That he could pick up his friendship with Peggy so seamlessly was such a comfort and marvel, but she tired easily. Age had settled into her bones, and when the air cooled and caused her to start coughing, Gabriel picked her up in his strong arms and carried her back inside where a home health nurse took over her care.

Her children saw him to the door. They encouraged him to come again and as often as possible. What they didn't say was that Steve and Peggy's friendship existed on borrowed time. He needed to build as many memories with her as possible before age and disease stole her from him again.

He cried on the way home, but they were cleansing tears, washing away bitterness, expectation, and the propaganda that ensured Captain America continued to be a white and straight defender of freedom and the American ideal, all while his white and straight girlfriend waited for him to win the war.

The more he thought about it, the more pissed off he became, and it was Tony's misfortune that he happened to be the first person Steve bumped into upon his return to the tower.

“Hey, big guy. I've been thinking, you should invite--”

“If I wanted to commission a biography of my life to be written in which I correct preconceived notions shoved down the public's throat during the war, how would I do that?”

“Hire a writer that's been fully vetted and make sure you retain the ability to veto before publication to ensure said writer doesn't make certain changes to address their own biases.”

“How would I find someone like that?”

“At this point, I'm going to pass you off to Pepper. She knows more about this sort of stuff than me. Peps! Pepper! Honey-Bunny-Doodle-Bear!”

“Anthony Stark, if you shout my name one more time...” She emerged from the bathroom in the common room in complete disarray, some sort of pore-cleansing mask over her face and wearing ratty sweatpants and a tank top. Bare feet padded across the marble.

Steve stopped thinking abruptly. He'd never seen her without her usual put-together appearance. There was something very human about seeing her like that. It was as startling as it was enchanting. She was beautiful with or without all the extras. He, on the other hand, looked like barely-edible corned beef first thing in the morning.

He spent the evening curled up on the sofa picking out a writer Pepper and he both thought trustworthy enough to produce an accurate biography. Bruce eventually joined them and brought along a tray of hot chocolate and macaroons that Steve happily munched his way through.

This was his family, he realized. And it was a beautiful family, one that helped him every day to become a person again, to reclaim himself from the mantle of Captain America. He still felt like a machine sometimes. He'd been built for war. His biggest contributions to society would always belong to Captain America, but it was a step in the right direction.

He was up with the sunrise the next morning, did his usual ten mile morning jog, then showered and headed to the common room to have breakfast with the others. Nat framed Clint with her body as she leaned over his shoulder to stir a pan of scrambled eggs. Her hand was gentle on his hip, and he looked as though he'd reached Nirvana with the sappiest smile known to mankind.

He was glad for them. They deserved a win. He ignored twin looks of irritation when he reached over their heads to pull down the mixing bowl they'd been on their tippy toes attempting to reach.

“We coulda gotten that,” Clint exclaimed.

“Would you like me to put it back and get you a chair?”

Somewhere behind them, Bruce snorted, but by the time they looked at him, his nose was buried behind a tablet. The only things visible were tufts of salt-and-pepper hair.

They worked seamlessly to put breakfast on the table, scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, and a bowl of Lucky Charms for Thor, who dragged himself to the breakfast table in a pair of board shorts and a hoodie. There were bags under his eyes. If ever a man looked miserable, it was Thor Odinson.

“This morning has been unkind to me, my friends. I require sustenance of the luckiest kind.” He flopped into a chair, pulled the bowl in his direction, and drenched the contents with an obscene amount of sugar and milk.

“Hey, buddy. Everything okay?” asked Steve.

“Nay, I say. Things are most unfortunate. My lady Jane is upset with me and made it a condition of my forgiveness that I sleep on that thing you call a sofa. Such furniture is dastardly, Tony. I require something longer and wider if my Jane continues her campaign. I have slain dragons with more ease than winning her forgiveness.”

“Trouble in paradise? Why's the little woman pissed at you?” asked Tony.

“In the past, I have shared intimacy with the good lady Sif. You Midgardians are much too stingy when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. On Asgard, it is common for shield brothers and sisters to celebrate victory with drinking, song, and sex. I, myself, have been known to become a little over-enthused during these celebrations--”

“Hold the phone,” Tony exclaimed. “You guys have orgies after battle? Why don't we have orgies?” When Bruce didn't respond with anything more than a put-upon look, he turned his attention to Nat. “Why don't we have post-battle orgies?”

“Because Pepper would literally roast your balls like chestnuts.”

“No, I think she'd be okay with it.”

Nat arched a brow. “Clearly, you remember Natalie Rushman differently than me. Take it from me; she wanted to claw my eyes out when I attempted to seduce you.”

Steve allowed the conversation to continue but had nothing of value to contribute when it came to matters of the heart. Sure, he'd loved someone once. Nothing had ever come of it. Nothing could have given the environment in which they'd lived.

But he enjoyed being part of a table filled with so many different personalities coming together to attack Thor's problem. In ways, he understood Jane's insecurities, empathized with the struggle to believe someone as handsome as Thor could possibly want her when Lady Sif was an option.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, “She's not angry with you; she's feeling insecure. Asgard is a warrior culture who values strength of arms above everything. How can she possibly compete for your affection against Sif, who is the epitome of what your people are supposed to desire?”

Conversation at the table quieted.

Thor swallowed his bite of Lucky Charms. “Such thoughts have no place in the mind of someone so brilliant as Jane. I am surrounded by people who live by the warrior's code. Jane is the rarest of jewels, a woman who values her own wants and needs, who isn't afraid of telling me nay.”

“Human emotions are rarely logical,” he responded.

J.A.R.V.I.S interrupted to announce an incoming phone call from Detective Misty Knight, and somehow, Steve found himself volunteered to meet with her at the precinct regarding the recent murders. He stole Stark's Bentley and plugged his phone into the jack to catch up on Bucky's podcast while fighting New York traffic.

_“A lady in my building was murdered last night.”_

Something was off. Bucky's voice sounded strange. Of course, that could be chalked up to having a murder take place in his building, but Steve couldn't ignore the way his guts twisted.

_“I won't say their name. It's not my place, and if a family member happened to be listening... Well, let's just say I wouldn't want anyone to find out about a loved one's death via a nosy podcaster. For our purposes, we'll refer to this person as Yellow._

_“Yellow is a middle-aged person belonging to a minority. This morning, Yellow's father found them in their apartment unresponsive and covered in lacerations, having bled out into the carpet some time in the last three days. There was also white residue on the wall surrounding an atomic shadow.”_

Steve pulled into the nearest parking space and turned up the volume.

_“These details are notable because I recently witnessed a crime scene with a similar modus operandi, that time the victim being a wealthy white man. The difference here is the cause of our topic today. When the victim was of a privileged status, the crime scene was crawling with Avengers, but a whole day has passed without so much as a single Avenger stopping by when the victim is of minority status._

_“Now, maybe I'm wrong. I hope I am, but those of us who care to dig into topics like these can file this into a particular trend where white victims, especially those of well-to-do families, receive ample media exposure, and that often leads to the victim being found or receiving justice. Similar cases involving minority victims don't receive near the same attention._

_“I'm not accusing anyone of anything, but we often operate on internal biases and aren't even aware of the damaging trends we contribute to. So I'm conducting an impromptu and entirely unscientific poll. If you're listening to this, write in to my email and let me know if you're a member of a minority and whether or not a superhuman vigilante assisted you in a time of crisis._

_“Secondarily, if vigilantes are so insistent upon helping common folk, just how are we supposed to get hold of them? Shouldn't they have a hotline or something? One-eight-hundred-save-me might work nicely. But seriously, I'd like to know what determines when one person gets saved when others don't. Do they just happen to be in the right place at the right time? Is it all just dumb luck? And if these vigilantes are going to make themselves law enforcers, shouldn't there be some standards they should be held to? Some way to ensure their own personal biases don't affect who they choose to save?_

_“And no, turkeyleg103, I will not shut my social justice warrior, white knight mouth. This is my platform, and I will say whatever I darn well please on my own platform. You are not allowed to derail our discussions with strawman arguments. You are the weakest link. Goodbye._

_“Tell me what you think._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute.”_

Steve couldn't get past the dejection in Bucky's voice, the fatigue that drained his usual enthusiasm like a melting iceberg, so he called in to Tony to have him send someone else to rendezvous with Detective Knight and drove straight to the apartment building where he and Jubilee lived. Long moments passed before Bucky opened the door wearing a blanket draped around his shoulders. He looked like Hell.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky sounded more curious than crabby.

“I heard your podcast today.” The desire to pull Bucky into his arms, to somehow lift away the cares or illness or whatever it was making him look so terrible was strong. He clenched hands into fists to ignore it. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

Bucky huffed. Rather than answering, he left the door open and shuffled to the sofa. An empty carton of ice cream sat on the floor. Packages of medication, containers of juice, and small snacks were piled atop the coffee table. Whatever was wrong, he looked ready for a long haul of it.

Hesitantly, Steve stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Can I get you anything? Ma always swore by chicken broth when I was young. That, bed rest, and cleanliness were her cures. Plenty of love and tenderness, too.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you answered the question 'why are you in the building.' I want to know why you're here in my apartment?” Something seemed to occur to him, and he sat forward, more confrontational. “Did Jubilee call you? I swear to God, if she called you--”

“Hey,” he said to stop Bucky's tirade. “Jubilee didn't call me.”

A sigh escaped. Bucky leaned back against the couch cushions. 

Silence fell between them, making the atmosphere uncomfortable, but Steve allowed Bucky whatever quiet space he needed to pull his thoughts together. While he waited, he studied Bucky, the delicate lines of his features, the width of his shoulders, the way his hair had gone curly as it got overly long on top. And he suddenly realized that he cared about him in more than a general sense.

Bucky was the first person since Peggy Carter who looked at him like he meant something more than his symbol. For the first time, he felt he could be a flawed human and Bucky would hold him accountable while still forgiving him.

Finally, Bucky spoke. “The Hulk wrecked the place I lived in during the Chitauri Invasion, and you know what the shitty thing is? Aliens hadn't even invaded that building. The Hulk just used it as a jungle gym to get high enough to launch himself onto one of those whales.”

He didn't know what to say and therefore said nothing.

“It wasn't so terrible for me. I didn't lose family members that day, but my neighbor was a paraplegic. Couldn't get out of his apartment in time to evacuate to the basement. Hulk tore open the side of his apartment, and he was killed by falling rubble.

“And I know Hulk didn't mean to do it. I know he was trying to do good by defending the city, but it still happened. A guy died because nobody cared about the collateral damage.

“God, please don't say you're sorry. I know you're sorry, and I know Banner's probably sorry, too. He's the one who has to live with it on his conscience. But that's the reason I'm so hard on the superhuman community. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Steve.

“You can't do anything. Banner can't do anything. The guy's family was taken care of by the relief fund, so there's nothing anyone can do except recognize the consequences of their actions. Think about the people who die because there doesn't seem to be a better way at the time.”

He flinched, thoughts going back to the attack on Madison Square Gardens and all the concert goers he'd sacrificed in order to stop a greater tragedy. Weakly, he countered, “Sometimes you can't save everyone. Sometimes you can only choose between two terrible paths.”

“I know, but the second you stop trying to minimize the damage is the second you fail.”

They allowed the conversation to drift as Bucky laid down against pillows piled on the sofa. He snuggled under a blanket with only his eyes peeking out, and Steve thought it was just about the cutest thing he'd ever seen. It also brought back the reality that Bucky seemed ill.

“What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, but thanks for caring.”

Another moment of quiet passed. It felt like maybe things were becoming final, like maybe this was the last they would see each other, so Steve didn't want to leave things unsaid between them. At the same time, he didn't know how to articulate what Bucky had come to mean to him.

What came out was, “I like you.” So he blushed and draped his forearms across his knees. “That night we were together was one of the best nights of my life. I like you, and I want to see where it goes between us. If you want the same, then maybe I could take you out when you're feeling better.”

Laughter bubbled from Bucky. It wasn't the sort of hurtful laughter that said Steve was an idiot for asking but was more self-deprecating. He knew the answer before Bucky spoke.

“I like you too, but I can't do this with you.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Won't.”

“Why not? Not that you owe me an explanation or anything.”

Steve could see the calculation going on behind his eyes long before Bucky said, “For a lot of reasons that include not being willing to date a superhero. Let's face it, if I date Steve Rogers, I'm also dating Captain America and every single colored-spandex-wearing-death-ray-toting-James-Bond-villain on the planet who wants to do you in.”

Nothing could help the sadness, but he understood. A rose growing in field full of land mines still smelled as sweet, but not everyone was willing to get their leg blown off to inhale its fragrance. Nodding, Steve rose from the armchair.

“What you've said matters, Buck. It didn't fall on deaf ears, and I'll be making some changes with how the Avengers operate to take into account some of your criticism. Keep doing what you're doing, and I'll keep listening. And thank you for reminding me what it's like to be Steve Rogers.”

Their goodbye was bittersweet in its finality. There was something hollow in the click of the door as he pulled it closed behind him. He would allow himself to be sad at the ending of a possibility but respected Bucky's reasons for making the decision he did. They were just too far apart to compromise.

Steve exited the apartment building. The only reason he looked up was the rustle of several pigeons taking off from the rooftop. A woman in red tactical gear stood there, a crimson cape billowing around her. He did not expect the cape to whip toward him nor its razor edge to open the skin of his bicep as the hardened point struck the pavement centimeters from where he stood.


	6. Funny You're The Broken One But I'm The Only One Who Needed Saving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from the song "Stay" by Rihanna.

“Do you need anything else? God, I don't like leaving you here the day after chemo,” Jubilee fretted. She pulled the blanket higher around Bucky's shoulders.

“Would you please just go to class?”

“But what if you need me?”

“I have the anti-nausea pills. I have my vomit bucket. I have water and snacks for when I can stomach them. There's nothing else you can do because I intend to wallow on this couch and sleep all day.”

“But--”

“Stop,” he interrupted before she could carry on with her mother-hen routine. “We talked about this. I'm not letting you put your life on hold to be my nursemaid. You agreed. Now go to class. Then, go to work, and pick up something for us for dinner on the way home. Got it?”

She still looked reluctant but eventually heeded his wishes, shooting one last glance over her shoulder before disappearing out the front door, taking the sun with her in the form of her bright yellow coat.”

And Bucky?

He absolutely followed doctor's orders and kept his ass sitting on the sofa while watching old documentaries about Egypt on the television. The first cycle usually wasn't bad. He had the stamina and strength to get through it relatively unscathed. It was the later cycles, the fourth and fifth and sixth that would take it out of him, that would leave him bedridden and unable to move with the nausea, which he was blessed to get in spades. Or at least he had when he'd been a kid. Now that he was on a stronger regiment of chemo, things could go south much quicker.

Eventually, he fell asleep until someone knocked on the door. Then there was Steve and that whole conversation to get through. At least they both behaved like adults. Didn't make it any easier seeing the dejected look on Steve's face after his request for a date was turned down.

They were better off, Bucky assured himself. He didn't need the complication of a relationship right now, let alone one fraught with so much stress. Telling himself it was for the best didn't completely ease the ache, though, and that surprised him. He hadn't expected to feel disappointment at all let alone wonder about the possibilities he turned down.

He moved to the window after Steve left to watch him from above, and that was the only reason he saw something red flash through the air and lacerate Steve's arm. It was the only reason he was there to watch a woman dressed in red drop from the rooftop to engage Steve on ground level.

And it was the only reason he witnessed the Crimson Cowl enfold Steve inside her cloak and the both of them disappear behind a bright flash of light. White residue bathed the street and served as a halo where their shadows once stood.

Bucky freaked the fuck out.

There weren't any numbers he could call to get in touch with Steve's co-workers, so he called the police, who sent a couple of uniformed officers along with a woman who introduced herself as Detective Misty Knight. He met them outside. She shook his hand.

“Can you start from the top and tell me what you saw?”

So he did.

Outside, CSI took photos of the shadow and its residue. Between the clicks of their cameras and the constant drone of voices, he became light-headed, and Detective Knight took his elbow to prevent him from falling. He was grateful for the assistance.

“Could this be related to the murder in my building?” he asked after catching his breath.

“Why don't we get you in out of the cold, Mister Barnes,” suggested Detective Knight.

But he didn't want to be pampered. He wanted to know where Steve was.

Thankfully, the arrival of Tony Stark distracted the detective. He dropped from the sky. Iron Man peeled open, and he stepped from inside. “Your office contacted us. What do you have?”

“Same residue as the murders. 'Course we won't know that for sure until we run it through our labs, but it looks and smells the same. Our witness saw the perp engage Captain Rogers on the sidewalk and abducted him via a sort of instantaneous transfer.”

“The fibers we found at the crime scene?”

“Some high tech, non-registered fiber that appears to be a mixture of silk and vibranium thread. There were also microscopic devices. Some kind of tiny computers or fiber optics. We aren't sure what it does yet. And we're still working on identifying the victim in the alley.”

“It makes the cloak move,” Bucky said from where he sat on the steps in front of the building.

Stark zeroed in on him, eyes lighting up. “Well if it isn't my gay lover. Sorry. Bisexual. This your witness, Detective?”

“Yep.” She excused herself for a moment to answer a call that sounded personal in nature, leaving them to get better acquainted.

Bucky turtled himself into his blanket until the only things visible were his eyes and top of his head. One, it was cold. Two, he distinctly remembered telling Tony Stark off the other week.

He said, “I might know someone who may be able to identify your victim.”

“Tell me,” Tony said. “Then we'll talk about what the Hell's wrong with you, 'cause you look awful, and if you're gonna date Captain America, you're gonna have to work on your tan.”

“Okay, one, I don't need a tan. Wait, why the Hell does this matter right now? It doesn't, so let's skip to the important part. My sister, Becca, she has a tattoo like the first guy did, the hammerhead shark on his wrist. Could be they're in the same gang, and she might be able to ID him.”

Which was how he wound up, one day post chemo infusion, at the correctional facility because he knew Becca had as much chance of spilling gang secrets to the feds as he had of suddenly becoming cancer free. That was zero, by the way. They sat down across from each other, Tony on his left, and Becca glancing warily between Bucky and Iron Man.

“What's this?” she asked. “Buck, you in some kind of trouble?”

God, he'd forgotten how much he just wanted to reach across the table and cuddle into her, could remember them building tent forts out of sheets and a fan. Then there was that one time Becca had told him to bend over 'cause the BB gun she'd been holding wasn't loaded. It had totally been loaded, and he'd had trouble sitting for a few days.

Tony putting photographs on the table between them startled him from his forget-me-nots. He cleared his throat and said, “Captain America has been abducted, and we think you might be able to help.”

“What you doing wrapped up in this?” She glanced between them again. “I don't care who you are, Stark, leave my brother outta this. He didn't have nothing to do with the Maggia, you hear? You start putting pressure on him to get to me, and I cut my tongue out so I can't answer you.”

“Dramatic,” Tony said. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie. But cool your boots, sugar bear. Bucky came to us with this lead and your name.”

Deep accusation etched the lines of her face.

Bucky held up his hands for a truce. “Steve has been good to me, Becca. Whatever is being done to him, he doesn't deserve it, and I just thought you could ID this murder victim. He's part of a case they were working on when Steve was taken. I'm not becoming a crime fighter or anything.”

She looked slightly relieved. “Good, 'cause you know what happens when people put their asses on the line for the safety of others? They get their asses shot off. I'll do it for you, baby boy. Not for him.” She inclined her head toward Tony.

Becca glanced at the pictures. A groove appeared between her eyebrows as she concentrated. After a few moments, she said, “Name's Joseph. I don't know his last name, but guys on the streets called him Hammerhead. He was one of the top enforcers in the Maggia.”

“Any ideas who would want him dead?”

That got a bark of laughter out of her. “We're involved with the Maggia. Everybody who isn't one of us wants us dead. Shit, even other crews inside the family want us dead.”

“Please, Becca. Anything you have to say could be useful. I know you've got no reason to trust the Avengers or any kind of law enforcement, but can you do this for me? He's a friend.”

Seconds ticked by. She glanced in several directions as though checking who might overhear them and leaned forward, lowering her voice to say, “Word is Hammerhead's boss got in a bad way with that weapons tech guy, Justin Hammer. Something about gun running going wrong. But that's all I know.”

After hearing the name, Tony looked like a rabid ferret who'd just set his eyes on the gleamiest, shiniest pile of what's its this side of Smog's treasure horde. He was seconds away from rubbing his hands together in glee as far Bucky could tell. Tony said, “That was surprisingly helpful, Ms. Barnes. I'll put in a good word with the warden. Let him know how helpful you've been.”

“You wanna pay me back, all you gotta do is put a few stacks in my commissary account so I can buy some thicker knickers!” she shouted after him as Tony moved toward the exit. “Shit's cold in here, yo.”

Bucky couldn't keep from chuckling.

By the time Jubilee got home, he was back to snuggling on his sofa, blanket pulled over him and half-dozing. Her light steps approached. Fingertips brushed through his bangs, but she didn't rouse him. Rather, she whispered to her girlfriend that they should hang out in her room. Anjali asked about him. Jubilee answered, and Anjali mentioned something about taking her estrogen shot while Jubilee got them some bottled waters from the fridge.

Their melodious voices didn't disturb his rest, and he slipped back to sleep after hearing a bedroom door click shut. Having them home made him feel settled despite his continued worry for Steve.

And two days after his first infusion, he was back to work as usual. Doctor García was adamant about keeping to his normal routine as much as possible. If he let cancer stop him, he would feel all the more alien in his own life. If he allowed it to take his work from him, what else would it destroy?

So he kept his meeting at Hammer Industries, entering the lobby after the cab dropped him off, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and looking smart in a charcoal suit. Security behind the front desk walked him through a metal detector before showing him up to Mr. Hammer's office. One assistant, a woman dressed to the nines, instructed him to take a seat.

It was fine. He was used to waiting, especially on big wigs who thought their time was more valuable than the average peon. What wasn't fine was the way both assistants kept staring at the pinned up sleeve and giggling to one another.

Normally, missing arm didn't bother him. Most New Yorkers were much too busy to stare. Sometimes kids remarked upon it, but their parents were more embarrassed than he was. Kids were curious like that. But occasionally, some random douche-canoe decided to make a big deal out of nothing and tried making him feel insufficient.

Like Hammer's two assistants.

He smiled politely. Really, he would have ignored it. The office had plenty of art to look at, and it was entertaining to try making sensible shapes out of the veins running through marble floors. In one corner, he thought it looked like an owl.

Except one of the women spoke louder than normal, a comment about not being able to date a person with only one arm. How would he hang into her hips and give it to her good?

“Only reason you want your guy hanging onto your hips is 'cause you think he's trying to get away from you,” he said in a bland tone of voice, his polite expression never changing.

She gasped.

“Must really suck to be so insecure with yourself that you have to make fun of someone. You should probably see a professional about that.”

The office door opened and another woman stepped out to call him back. He smiled at the two assistants, rose, shouldered his bag, and swept past them with head high and back straight. Their opinion meant nothing to him. He wasn't about to let them get under his skin.

Justin Hammer, as it turned out, was a plain man. He wore a simple suit, simple glasses with black frames, and a simple haircut. Nothing stood out about him. He possessed none of the flair and pizzazz of men like Tony Stark, which in a way made him more approachable.

“Mr. Barnes,” he declared while rising from behind his desk. “I'm so happy you could join me today.” Moving around his desk, he placed a hand against Bucky's shoulder and guided him toward a sideboard to pour them both a whiskey.

Bucky pretended to sip. Alcohol and his chemotherapy didn't mix well, but he couldn't turn down the offer. Instead, he said, “My boss said you're interested in creating policies to cover your businesses and home property?”

“Yes indeedie, cuddle peetie. You understand. All the sensitive chemicals and explosive devices here and in our warehouse properties across the country? We're particularly susceptible to superhuman thievery. Those dratted superhumans are always attempting to arm themselves with new technology.”

“Of course. Normally, I'm just an adjustor, but Ms. Shapandar said you asked for me personally?”

“Let me tell you about that, son.” He guided Bucky with a hand on the back of his shoulder, and they made their way into a private elevator. It deposited them in an underground workshop where they strolled amidst various stations that buzzed with activity.

Turned out, Mr. Hammer was a fan of sorts after seeing him during news coverage of the explosion in Chinatown. “Anyone with the cojones to go running into a burning building has to be the guy who can fight for my company. Besides, I enjoy rewarding bravery like that. It's part of my philanthropist heart. So what do you say? Think we can work together?”

Before he could respond, a woman approached. She wore a red sheath dress. Her brunette hair was pinned up in a tight twist. Crimson lipstick painted her mouth with blood. She kissed Mr. Hammer's cheek and said, “Who's this, Papa?”

Alarm ignited in Bucky's guts.

“This is Mr. Barnes from SDI. Mr. Barnes, my lovely and talented daughter, Justine. That Tony, man. He's always bragging about how much better he is, you know. He's always trying to downplay the ingenuity of my scientists, but I sleep well at night knowing I did something so much more important than him. I brought this amazing creature into the world.”

“Ms. Hammer,” acknowledged Bucky. And okay, it was probably just a random meeting. He was likely being paranoid, but after that podcast he published outing her to Tony Stark and her subsequent termination, he was keenly aware she might have a particular ax to grind.

Her smile was beautiful and shark-like when she offered her hand. “It's always lovely to met one of Papa's business associates. You will, of course, be good to him, yes?”

“Of course,” he responded while shaking her hand.

“If I could just steal Papa for a few moments?”

The pair went off together toward the private elevator, leaving Bucky to watch the various engineers and scientists performing their work. And it would have been fine. That would have been the extent of it. He would have stood there until Hammer returned but for glancing through an open doorway and seeing a machine weaving crimson cloth with vibranium thread.

Instinct screamed through his conscious mind. He needed to flee. He had to get out of there. He wasn't safe. He had to go, but he also needed to be sure, so instead of allowing his feet to carry him away, he about-faced and slipped into the room.

Really, the loom was the only thing in there. Nothing else seemed suspicious, at least not until he heard a slight sound over the clank and drag of the reed, the warp, and the weft. It sounded human but reverberated through the wall.

He recognized the sound of that voice.

“Steve?” He knocked against the wall.

Someone knocked back.

“Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

There had to be a false wall or a hidden door. Something. That was how these murder mysteries went, right? Goddamn it, he was an insurance adjustor, not Inspector Gadget, and it was pure luck that his heel caught on a loose floor tile. Lifting it revealed a button. The button opened a section of wall. Inside was located Steve Rogers in a cage.

They were both startled to see one another, and neither spoke for a good thirty seconds before gathering their wits. Steve started by saying, “Buck, what are you doing here? You can't be here.”

“What am I doing here? I came to write an insurance policy. I'm not Luke Skywalker. I'm not here to rescue you. Think of me more like Han Solo. I'm here for the reward, sweetheart.”

Steve laughed. He grabbed two bars of the cage, but they didn't budge. “Reinforced alloy. Look, you can't be here. The best thing you can do is get out of here and tell Tony where I am. Leave it to the Avengers. They'll figure out how--”

Justine clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I went to your apartment, Mr. Barnes, to exact revenge for outing me to Tony Stark, but the possibility of owning and controlling the great Captain America was impossible to pass up. Too bad you didn't leave well enough alone.”

“Let's everyone calm down,” Bucky cooed. “There's no need for anyone to do something rash.” He glanced between her and the loom outside. “You're the Crimson Cowl.”

Her shark-smile returned. “Let's not devolve into movie clichés. This is not where the villain's monologue goes. I will not be baited into describing my brilliant opus to you. You are revenge, pure and sweet. He will be a test subject, and if all goes well, he'll be sold to Hydra for the completion of their new Winter Soldier project.”

“What do you--”

She cut him off when ribbons of crimson fabric glided through the air. It was graceful like a crane, and when Bucky dodged to evade it, it whipped around his neck and yanked him in the opposite direction.

No air got past the constriction. It lifted his feet from the floor, twined in loops upon loops into the shape of a noose as the other end wrapped snugly around an overhead beam. He kicked wildly. No amount of instinct warning him that movement would use up his oxygen faster prevented it.

“Let him go!” shouted Steve, who threw his bulk against the cage bars. “Damn it, let him go, and I won't fight you. You can do whatever you want to me if you just release him.”

Justine's elated grin eased, and she glanced in Steve's direction. “Perhaps you're right, but you realize I can't let him go. Not when he knows where my facility is located.” Still, she eased the pressure, and the cloth lowered him back to the floor.

Once his feet touched the round, he collapsed to his knees, coughing and sucking in great gulps of air.

“Insurance, then. After all, he is an insurance man, yes?”

Rivers of crimson slithered along the floor. No matter how he kicked or attempted to escape, he was no match for the prehensile cloth, and before he knew it, he was wrapped up like a mummy and dangling from the ceiling. She left his mouth and nose uncovered and a small slit across his eyes so he could see his surroundings, but that was wall. 

The pressure against the port in his chest was intense.

Neither man spoke until she stalked from the hidden room, murmuring something about explaining to Papa how Mr. Barnes had left without performing the consultation.

Beat.

“I can't even blame this on you,” Bucky commented. “My own big mouth got me in trouble.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said. “I'm so goddamn sorry this happened to you.”

Maybe it was the irony. Maybe it was giddiness. Whatever the reason, Bucky giggled like a maniac. “I didn't want to date you because I figured it would get me in trouble. The whole Snidely Whiplash tying damsels in distress to train tracks. It never crossed my mind I might get you in trouble.”

“This isn't your fault, Buck.”

“No, it's not my fault, but we're here nonetheless. You think if I called her back she'd move the cloth over my port? It's fucking killing me. Good thing I don't drive. I've heard wearing seat belts with a port is tantamount to murder.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cancer, Spangles. Got a port in my chest because it's easier to administer chemotherapy and draw blood and the like through a port than having to find a vein each time.”

Beat.

“God, Bucky.”

“I know. You're sorry. It's okay. Leukemia's had my number since I was a kid. Just a matter of time until it caught up with me. That time, it seems, is now.”

*

Steve had been a fighter long before Project Rebirth and Captain America. He had been since he'd struggled from his ma's womb, kicking and screaming and swinging his fists at the powers attempting to take him from the world so soon. He'd been born two months premature. The fact he'd survived past his first day of life had been as much a miracle as every day afterward.

So lying on a table and forcing himself to be still while Justine Hammer performed her experiments went against every natural instinct he'd been born with. The thing was, he didn't really have a choice, not with Bucky pinned against a wall, crimson cloth snug around his neck. Every time he fought, the ribbon of red tightened and Bucky paled.

There was nothing he could do but gnash his teeth while Crimson Cowl threaded fiber optic filaments coated in vibranium beneath his skin. She wove it into position along the delicate bones of his fingers and up his forearm, forming a network that reminded him of threading the Maypole.

Blood dripped from his fingertips into a bucket on the floor, and he wasn't sure how his body could contain that much blood, how he could still be conscious after losing so much. But he was, and every new pinprick into his skin was another bee sting.

She'd been at it for several hours before stepping back to look at the computer monitor mounted to the wall. It peered through the skin and showed the pattern of thread she'd woven. Pleased, she stepped back from the table and rinsed her hands in the sink. Soap lathered into pink suds as she washed.

“Shall we check our progress, Captain?”

He didn't bother responding.

The computer terminal activated as she approached, and she said, “J.A.R.V.I.S, proceed with SGR Trial One. Set the duration for one minute at half strength.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

That caught Steve's attention, and he tried testing the strength of his restraints again, to no avail.

“Captain, don't hurt yourself.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S?”

“Don't bother,” she cooed. “I copied J.A.R.V.I.S' files when I first started working for the non-profit. Of course, I tweaked some things, turned down the AI's evolution capabilities. I wouldn't want him to grow a brain of his own and decide to go looking for his creator again.”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but a jolt of energy raced through his hand and forearm. His fingers twitched. They started clenching against his own volition. Alarmed, he fought against the constriction, telling his muscles to move in the opposite direction, and it worked for a minute. He was able to stop his hand from closing, but it took everything in him, every ounce of super-serum strength.

“Now, that's just impressive, Captain. J.A.R.V.I.S, increase to seventy-five percent.”

By the time they reached one hundred ten percent, the muscle fatigue became too much, and Justine's thread overpowered him, forcing his fingers into a fist despite how badly he shook with exhaustion. He was drenched in sweat by the end.

“Just think of the applications,” she cooed. Her dainty palm smoothed hair back from his forehead. “Paralysis would become a thing of the past. Impotence would not longer hinder a man's libido. We could self-heal broken bones. It's incredible, isn't it?”

“It's only a shame you're planning on selling the technology to Hydra,” he barked.

She hushed him. “Not the technology. Just you. Their greatest enemy dressed up in Hydra colors and wearing the skull and tentacles. You will become the Fist of Hydra, the Winter Soldier, and Hydra will be feared the world over.”

“You're psychotic,” Bucky muttered. “What the Hell is wrong with you? Were you dropped on your head as a baby? Your daddy not love you enough?” He was cut off by the cloth tightening around his throat again, causing him to choke.

“Bucky...” warned Steve. There was no point in Bucky bringing harm to himself.

“Well, I think that's a successful test. We'll continue with the process tomorrow. I'd estimate a month before I've completed the weaving. Then a week of healing time. It will be a painful process, after all. After that, we'll enter a testing phase. Hydra representatives will be here for that.”

Her damned cloth moved him from the lab table back into his cell before carrying Bucky inside. They were left by themselves after the cell door closed, but Steve wasn't concerned about himself. Bucky looked terrible and started shivering the second he was settled on the stone floor. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, we're gonna get outta here, Buck.” Steve crawled across the floor and pulled Bucky into his arms in an effort to warm him with body heat. “The Avengers will figure out what's going on and bust this place open to rescue us. We just have to hang on.”

“Trapped in a cage, experimented on, and you're still a bucket of damned sunshine.” He coughed before speaking again. “My favorite cartoon character is Eeyore. What's yours?”

“The Evil queen.”

Bucky did a double-take. “Wait. What? How does that work?”

Steve shrugged. “She knew what she wanted and went after it. Look, I'm not condoning what she did, but Aurora was just a victim and had absolutely no autonomy in the story. She fell in love with a prince who danced with her once, so she's desperate for affection, too.”

Bucky laughed his way through the explanation and coughed again. “Immune system's compromised because of the chemo, so there's a good chance I'm not getting out of here.”

“Come on, Buck, don't talk like that.”

It prompted more laughter. “You and Jubilee, man. Who cursed me with the two most optimistic people on the planet, huh?” Bucky fell quiet for a moment, absently rubbing his cheek against Steve's chest. “No, really. It's weird. Captain America's got nothing on you. That guy's super flat. You're so much more. God, isn't that the truth? That guy was given his strength and moral character by Senator Brandt. There was never any question he was gonna do good things. Steve Rogers, though. He knows how to struggle, and what he accomplishes is all the more beautiful because of the struggle.”

His heart ached. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Bucky's head and held him closer. Romeo and Juliet must have felt something similar while swept up in their love affair. He was falling for Bucky, but things outside of their control stood in the way of their star-crossed love. The question was whether or not they were both willing to die to burn hotter than a star.

After a while, Bucky murmured, “I really like you, Steve. Believe me, it came as a huge surprise.”

“Feeling's mutual, but I respect your decision not to pursue a relationship.”

“What if I didn't want you to respect it?”

Steve wasn't sure how to respond, only knew how to swallow around a spark of hope.

“Look, I'm not playing hard to get here. Trust me, I know what a pain in the keister I can be, but this whole escapade's got me thinking. When you were kidnapped, I about went out of my goddamn mind. I've never felt so helpless in my life, and doesn't that mean something? When my fear for your safety's stronger than my fear of commitment? That has to mean something, right?”

“It means something.”

“So if we get out of here, I was thinking maybe we could go on a date. You know, take it slow. Maybe I could get self-defense training so I'm less likely to become butt buddies with some villain.” Bucky's eyes brightened with a sudden jolt of skepticism. “Huh. So that's what that's like. You know, that feeling when you're looking forward to the future, when you're making plans beyond the cancer.”

“Maybe Jubilee and me are rubbing off on you?” Steve asked with a dopey smile.

It heralded the return of Grumpy Bucky. “Don't count on it, pal.”

Eventually, Bucky dropped into a doze, snuggled securely in his arms.

Some time later, Steve jolted awake, uncertain about what had disturbed his rest. If one could call lying in a cell in the cold real rest. He was inclined to say no.

It came again, a dull sound filtering through the building. And again. Nearer, this time, causing vibrations to rumble through the foundations.

He knew then it was an attack and sat up, turning to rouse Bucky, whose breathing was disrupted by intermittent coughing. Fever burned through Bucky's body, and it took a full shaking to rouse him, but his eyes did finally part, confusion etched on his features.

“We're getting outta here, Buck.”

Bucky slurred something unintelligible.

The door opened. Crimson Cowl, garbed in her red cloth, rushed inside and screeched, “They're going to ruin everything! You.” She punched a finger toward Steve. “I won't lose all the progress I've made. You are coming with me.”

Ribbons of cloth snaked into the cell ahead of her, swishing around and around as it tangled up his legs to immobilize him. J.A.R.V.I.S activated the fiber optic threads buried under his skin. His hand grasped the opposite wrist and clenched, preventing him from striking out as she entered the cell.

Panic spiked his heart rate. He couldn't move, couldn't hinder her, couldn't prevent himself from being transported to another location. At least Bucky would remain here for the Avengers to find, but right now, he was more concerned with not being let loose on the world as the Winter Soldier.

She neared, and he thrashed. Violently. It only delayed the inevitable, though, and she grasped hold of his bicep and activated a device on her belt to being the teleportation.

When the attack came, it came out of nowhere. Bucky lunged from the floor and grabbed the device. They grappled with each other, yards of red cloth winding around them in a furious storm of color, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn't help Bucky. He couldn't prevent Crimson Cowl from killing him. He was impotent, helpless, afraid.

Something crackled inside the cocoon. Cloth sagged. Bucky struggled from inside the swaths of fabric and came away with the transporter device in his hand while Justine screeched.

“What have you done?” Electricity arched across her suit, and the cloth became unresponsive. “J.A.R.V.I.S, activate SGR-01. Kill Mr. Barnes. With gross prejudice.”

Horror dropped his stomach into his feet when the threaded hand moved toward Bucky. Bucky dodged the attack and ran from the cell, but it was only a matter of time before his weakened body slowed enough for the hand to reach him.

It happened sooner rather than later. The hand slammed Bucky against the wall and tightened around his throat, and Steve looked desperately in every direction before spying an industrial cutting machine in the loom chamber. The hand might be under Justine's control, but the rest of his body wasn't, and he dragged them into the other room with every intention of cutting off his arm to save Bucky's life.

Before he could, the door burst open. Tony stomped inside, Rescue hot on his heels.

“Vibranium enhanced fiber optics embedded inside my arm. Cut it off. You've gotta cut it off before he suffocates. Please, cut it off,” he begged.

“So dramatic, Steve,” Tony quipped.

Tony didn't cut his arm off. On the contrary, he blasted Steve with electricity that shorted out the computer chips buried in the fiber optics, and that was enough to relax his grip. Unfortunately, the electricity also arched into Bucky, who crumbled to the ground.

Steve followed him. “He isn't breathing!” His left arm was limp, so he rolled Bucky onto his back with his right and started CPR, or what CPR he could perform left handed.

Natasha was there, though, and urged him to the side so she could take over, pausing chest compressions long enough to blow a breath into Bucky's lungs.

And Steve? Steve buried his fingers in his hair and rocked back and forth. “Breathe, baby. Come on, breathe. You gotta breathe. Don't do this to me, sugar pie.”

Heart-stopping seconds passed before Bucky gasped in oxygen and continued breathing on his own, though he didn't return to consciousness, which was scary enough. 

By the time paramedics arrived, he was ready to yank himself bald and only noted that Justine was on her knees being restrained by Rescue. For once, he allowed himself to come before his duty.

“Go with them, Cap,” instructed Tony. “We'll finish up here. Then we'll find a way to undo whatever hocus pocus she did on your arm.”

As he left with the paramedics, he thought to call back over his shoulder, “She stole a copy of J.A.R.V.I.S, so you'll want to wipe her computer systems.”

The hospital turned into a mad house after they arrived. He'd called Jubilee to let her know what was happening, so she met them there upon their arrival with her girlfriend. Over the next several hours, more people showed up. Ms. Shapandar introduced herself as Bucky's boss. Someone named Richard from the office turned up with flowers.

Nurses let him sit with Bucky in ICU only because Jubilee insisted Steve was Bucky's fiance, so he pulled his chair close and reached between the bars to cup Bucky's hand. He looked so fragile in the artificial light, like a ghost frozen between the Arctic. A ventilator breathed for him, and any time his nurse touched him, he shook uncontrollably. They thought the reaction was a seizure at first, but the neurologist performed an EEG and couldn't find any evidence of seizure or stroke.

Steve set up his phone and listened to the podcast Bucky had scheduled to publish that day.

_“Hey, guys. You should probably know that my posting schedule might become sporadic over the next few months. I've talked about my childhood fight with Leukemia before. Well, my oncologist confirmed that the cancer is back._

_“I've lived my entire life afraid of a recurrence, and here it is. You know the one thing I didn't anticipate? Starring in my own private version of the Fault In Our Stars. Only I'm Augustus, and Hazel is played by this amazing guy we'll call Blue. Only, you know, Blue doesn't have cancer._

_“Anyhow, all my life, I've been apathetic about my existence. Not because I actively wanted to die or thought I had it bad. That's not it at all. I just always felt like I was living on borrowed time, and it wasn't the chemotherapy or the cancer that made me think that. It goes back farther._

_“Most of you don't know this, but when I was a kid, I was involved in a car accident coming home from a play date at the park. It was pretty bad. Paramedics rushed me to the hospital, and that's how I lost my arm. Thing is, it was because of losing my arm doctors were able to find the Leukemia and start chemotherapy in time to make a difference._

_“So maybe I should have died during that car accident, but my mom, she always said the accident was a miracle, a sign from God that allowed me to get the treatment I needed to save my life. I never really believed that. To me, it was just another sign of my own mortality._

_“But something's different, and it's not just because I met a great guy and feel like I'm falling in love. It's because my sister reminded me that depression isn't just sadness; it's also apathy. It's because my roommate got kicked out of her home for loving a woman but still managed to pry herself out of the depths of homelessness to follow her dreams. It's because a guy named Blue reminded me that superhumans are just people trying to make a difference, people who sometimes make mistakes._

_“There's no future with Blue and me. Our lives are on two different paths. We care about different things, but the possibility of Blue makes me happy. He came out of the womb fighting, and if he can, then maybe I can, too. Maybe he became a role model to me like he claims I am for him._

_“Or don't listen to me at all. I'm a maudlin mess right now. What I know is that I'm going to fight. I'm going to be that little guy with a bloody nose yelling at the world that injustice isn't right, and I'll do it for him, for my sister, for my roommate, and for me._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute.”_

Steve wiped away the tears in his eyes. Maybe he imagined it, but he felt pressure against his hand as Bucky squeezed it.


	7. Can I Lay By Your Side And Make Sure You're All Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there's more shit and more fans and then an industrial sized cleaning effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from the song "Lay Me Down" by Sam Smith.

He didn't see Steve after his release from the hospital; Steve and the Avengers had been called away on a mission. The unfinished business between them remained unfinished.

Instead, Jubilee and Anjali picked him up from the hospital and got him settled back at home, and a couple of days later, he returned to work. Old Bucky would have wanted that to be it. The Bucky before Crimson Cowl would have delighted in that being it, but every day that passed without Steve saw his disappointment growing like a monster stuffed inside his closet with Crisco and engine grease.

Steve texted a week later just when Bucky's old cynicism showed its ugly head.

 **Steve:** God, I'm so sorry for disappearing like that. The mission went longer than expected. How are you? Pepper tells me you're out of the hospital and back to work.

 **Bucky:** I'm sorry? Who is this?

 **Steve:** Steve... Steve Rogers...

 **Bucky:** You mean the guy who dropped me at the hospital and took off for a week? That guy? You know, the one who couldn't find time to text me.

 **Steve:** I'm sorry. Christ, you gotta know I wanted to be there.

 **Bucky:** Shut up. I'm kidding. Bring me shrimp and grits from Wilma Jean's, and you're forgiven.

Steve turned up looking like refried Hell, still in his uniform, unshaven, stinking so strongly of sweat and gunpowder it overpowered the delectable aroma of shrimp and grits. First thing Bucky made him do was take a shower, laying out a pair of old basketball shorts and a tee for when he finished.

Then, comfortable and looking soft in Bucky's clothes, they spread their feast out on the coffee table to eat while watching a documentary on Netflix. Every now and then, a broad palm caressed one of his thighs. Every then and now, Bucky sneaked a peek to find him completely engrossed, eyes bright, transfixed by whatever played on the television. Honestly, Bucky couldn't say what it was; he was too busy marveling over the man reclining on his sofa.

And wasn't that so damn beautiful? Steve may not have finished ninth grade, but his eagerness to learn was a thing of beauty. He was beautiful. Breathtaking. So earnest in life, one of the last of the rare breed who fought the good fight no matter how detrimental it was to them.

Bucky found himself enspelled. So much so that he shifted his position in order to climb into Steve's lap to snuggle into his embrace. Steve didn't seem to mind. He even overlooked Bucky wiggling until he found the most comfortable position before sinking into the warmth of human contact, just smiled down with the softest expression.

That was their last one and only good date before his chemo treatments took a turn for the miserable.

During his fourth cycle, he became so sick that work proved impossible. Richard said Ms. Shapandar had called from a meeting to have Bucky sent home. By the time he returned, more than a week had passed, and even then, he was wane and lackluster in his performance. It prompted a bellowing summons to the lair of the beast where Ms. Shapandar gave him a thorough examination and called Richard to start processing Bucky's medical leave.

“I can do my job,” he groused, posture straightening. “How much freaking effort does it take to sit behind a desk and process claims?”

Her icy gaze didn't falter.

So he resorted to begging, which he wasn't too proud to do when his job was involved. “Please. I need this job. I need to feel normal. I need--”

A raised hand halted his tirade.

“Barnes, you'll never hear me say this twice, so listen closely. You're one of my best employees. You're charming. The customers like you. Maybe you overpay from time to time, but the amount of satisfied customers who renew their policies speaks volumes.

“Trust me when I say I'll be more unhappy if you drop dead at your desk than if I'm forced to hire a temp to replace you while you're recovering.”

“But, Ms. Shapandar--”

“End of discussion. You're on temporary medical leave.” She stood and braced fingertips against desktop to lean closer. “You might not value your life, Barnes, so it becomes my job to ensure the health and happiness of one of my employees. Go home. Rest. Worry about recovering. Do not come back to this office without a clean bill of help.”

“And I'm supposed to live on what, exactly?”

“The generous policy Superhuman Disaster Insurance has on each of its employees. It pays covers your benefits package during medical crises and family events. We would rather you worry about recovering than paying your rent and food. Now, get out of my office.”

The tone of her voice was clear; it said further arguing would result in the emergence of She Who Would Not Be Named and most likely end with him being carted out of her office on a stretcher. So he left. Richard, a sympathetic smile in place, gave him a packet of information on his way out, and Bucky spent the evening filling out the necessary claim forms.

Ms. Shapandar must have been acting on a premonition because he spent his next cycle shitting the bed. The first time it happened, he was so mortified he didn't tell Jubilee and spent the rest of the night shivering on the cold floor. He woke up aching the next morning, and that was when she found out.

From then on, she rescued him every time he had an accident, helping him to the bathroom, draping towels warmed in the dryer over his shoulders, changing his sheets and cleaning up his mess before putting him back to bed. She never asked to become his caretaker, but she never once flinched away.

The lowest point? When he had an accident when Steve was there. They were on the sofa watching Disney movies when it happened. He couldn't get to the bathroom in time. Steve smelled it and commented as gently as possible, but how the Hell could someone be gentle about something so filthy? Bucky disappeared into the bathroom and refused to come out, pleading for Steve to just leave, that he could handle it on his own.

And maybe he could have, but the thing was that he didn't have to.

Steve left angry and frustrated that day, at least that was what Bucky presumed by the sound of his front door banging closed. Okay, maybe he was being ridiculous, but he did not want his semi-boyfriend wiping his ass. It was bad enough when Jubilee had to do it.

Then came the day he dreaded. One of his chemo appointments was scheduled for the same day as one of her tests. He categorically refused her offer to reschedule her test. She refused to let him take an Uber and sit through the infusion by himself.

Really, he should have known what she was up to every time she insisted it was taken care of, but it still took him by surprise when he opened the front door dressed in his warmest clothes to see Tall, Blond, and Superhuman standing on their welcome mat. After being told Bucky didn't want him at his chemo appointments, didn't want the stress of having to look and behave at his best when he was feeling at his worst. There was a reason he stated his wishes; it just so happened his roommate cared fuck-all about them and did whatever she pleased.

“Oh God, what are you doing here?”

Steve flinched backward.

“Shit. No. That's not what I meant. That came out more acidic than I intended. Um. I just--” Nervous, he tugged at the green, knit hat pulled over his head. “You're not really seeing me at my--”

“Buck, I don't care what you look like,” interrupted Steve.

“But you don't...” Unsure what to say, he allowed the comment to trail of. Their last date hadn't exactly been a walk in the park.

“I woulda been here for every chemo appointment if you'd let me. That's what you don't understand. I've been right here, hoping you'd change your mind. Maybe that was stupid. You made your wishes clear, but I'm thinking it's because you're insecure or you think I won't be able to handle it.”

“Jesus jumped on a pogo stick,” he sighed. “I don't want you fussing over me.”

“Really, Buck. I just want to be here for you. Take care of you. Do whatever I can to support you.”

“Oh God, stop.” He stumbled forward the two steps separating them and fell into Steve's chest, arm and stump winding around the man's incredible waist to hold him tight. “Just shut up and hold me.”

There was no hesitance when Steve gathered him close.

“I can't handle the whole angelic thing you've got going on right now. You glow any brighter, you'll burn my retinas out, and my eyesight's just about all I've got left.”

Steve huffed, and if Bucky wasn't mistaken, the guy pressed a quick kiss against the crown of his head.

“We should get going. Chleo, my oncology nurse, gives me juice and these awesome cookies while getting my infusion if I get there on time.”

Walking into the hospital with Steve didn't feel any differently than arriving with Jubilee, as evidenced by Steve's insistence he ride in a wheelchair. He was a mother hen just like her, but boy did the oncology nurses working in the department freak out when they saw him, much to Bucky's displeasure.

Even Chleo got starry eyed when she arrived with Bucky's plate of cookies and bottle of juice. He was pretty sure that if her jaw dropped anymore, she'd be tripping on her teeth.

Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, “He's just a guy.”

 

                    

A guy who rolled a stool closer to the blue monstrosity Bucky settled himself in and placed a warm hand on Bucky's forearm, and okay, maybe Bucky felt himself tipping headlong into the pools of blue that were Steve's eyes, but the guy was still a guy. A beautiful, empathetic, supportive guy who happened to be Captain America in his spare time. And what the Hell was Bucky doing turning down the one just because he happened to also be the other?

His heart did something funny. See, it wasn't even Steve's fault Bucky had gotten tangled up with Crimson Cowl. That, he had accomplished all on his own. In fact, it was because of him Steve found himself barreling down the Nope Tracks to Do Not Want Ville.

“Shut up,” Bucky murmured.

A light smirk curled Steve's mouth. “I didn't say anything.”

“If you tell me 'I told you so,' I'll forget to take my anti-nausea pills and throw up on you.” That said, he hooked his finger in the collar of Steve's shirt and pulled him close enough for a kiss.

Startled, Steve stiffened only to melt into the contact seconds later, much to the pleasure of Chleo and every other nurse in the ward. Steve cupped his cheek to pull him closer. The kiss wasn't filthy. It wasn't inappropriate for their location or anything, but it felt intimate in ways he'd never experienced before. It was the kind of kiss that pierced his heart like a fish hook and tugged, pulling him inevitably closer to the man rather than the symbol.

When they parted, Bucky snapped, “What? Haven't you ever seen people kiss before?”

Chleo and the others laughed and hurried about their business. In her case, it was hooking up the IV line to the port in his chest so she could start the infusion.

“This will take a while,” Bucky said, head falling back against the chair. “So if you want to take off or wander around, that's fine.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

And he didn't. Jubilee, God love her, tended to get antsy during the infusions and often explored the hospital, only to reappear when he was ready to go. Steve wasn't like that. He remained beside him and distracted him with light conversation.

At some point, it dawned on him that he'd never seen Steve so at ease before, had never seen his laughter so genuine. That was when he started to understand. This wasn't a burden to Steve. He wasn't a burden. Steve was just a guy, and he was every bit worth the risk. Bucky had a feeling that allowing his fears to come between them would be his greatest regret.

Doctor García came to see him during his infusion, interrupting the quiet moment. “Mr. Barnes, I wanted to catch you before you left.” That said, he pulled a stool over and sat down. “I think we're at the stage in your treatment where we need to start talking about the next stage. Would you like for your guest to give us some privacy?”

Bucky sat up straighter and touched Steve's hand. “No, he can stay.”

“As you know, we weren't able to harvest your own stem cells for the transplant, so we've looked over Ms. Lee's samples. Unfortunately, she's not a compatible match, and in your condition, the closer the match, the better chances he transplant will take. At this point, I think we need to refer to the database to find a suitable donor if that's all right with you.”

They'd known it was a possibility, but Jubilee would be crushed. “I guess if that's the next step.”

“What about me?” asked Steve. “Could you test me as a donor?”

Doctor García looked to Bucky for that answer.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

Chleo sat with him after Steve left to have the matching process completed. She spent the time giving him sidelong glances while he aggressively ignored her. Their stalemate ended with Bucky poking her until she spit it out. It was like opening Pandora's box.

She and several nearby nurses gathered around his chair to gush over how cute Steve and him were as a couple, and okay, it was kind of adorable how invested they had become in his personal life. It was like having a whole cheerleading squad rooting for the home team. Also? Having someone to share the giddy enthusiasm of finally allowing himself to experience his young infatuation was nice.

At the end of the afternoon, after his infusion was complete and Steve had returned, Chleo sent them off with a tiny heart drawn on Bucky's wrist in red Sharpie. It was a promise, a visual representation of the new emotions he no longer restrained.

They got soup and sandwiches on the way home, and Steve helped him settle into the sofa in the apartment, Steve leaning against the opposite arm rest with Bucky's feet in his lap.

Once settled, they talked for hours. Steve told him about growing up in Brooklyn, about how much closer the community seemed than today, but Bucky informed him that was just his perspective. Because Steve hadn't been to one of the neighborhood block parties. Steve hadn't experienced one of the many small festivals and art shows that popped up. Because ultimately, Steve hadn't given modern Brooklyn a chance. He was too busy isolating himself and pining for the past.

Steve smiled instead of taking insult. He dropped a hand onto Bucky's ankle, thumb finding bare skin and rubbing back and forth absently while they chatted. There was something so intimate about the touch. Something that felt so vulnerable.

Somehow, they wound up kissing, Steve wedged between him and the sofa's backrest. Their kisses were lazy, gentle things like the ghost of a butterfly's wings. They were kisses meant to soothe, meant to tie them together instead of leading toward sex.

Lying there, being cradled in Steve's arm, his senses full of his smell, his warmth, the texture of his skin, flooded with Steve, made him forget the rest of the world and the multitude of reasons he'd fought against their connection. It just felt right.

Hopeful.

And after a while, Bucky laced his fingers with Steve's and guided his hand down to Bucky's cock. It was a silent request for Steve to make him feel good in spite of the afternoon's strain.

Steve cupped his dick, molding the material of his sweatpants around his flesh with gentle strokes, and it didn't take long for him to go from half-hard to fully erect.

Then Steve's hand was inside his sweats. Then Steve was pulling him free. There was his thumb sliding through a bead of fluid and using it to ease the way. Light, unhurried motions stroked him. He buried his gasp in Steve's shoulder. He trembled with the rising passion. Every ounce of him focused on the way Steve made him feel, the warm flood of endorphins beating back all his exhaustion, all his aches and pains, every insecurity that insisted he wasn't sexy enough to experience this.

Steve hushed him with lips pressed against Bucky's forehead. “I got you, sweetheart. Just let go.”

The hand stroking him sped up.

“You can do it. Do it for me, sweetheart. You're allowed to feel good. Let me make you feel good.”

Between the warm rumble of Steve's chest and the slick slide of his hand, Bucky was a goner. He clenched his teeth against the solid muscle of Steve's chest when the orgasm rushed through him.

“That's it. Did that feel good? You're probably feeling pretty good right now. It's okay. I'm happy to make you feel good. It makes me happy. You make me happy.”

Bucky didn't know tears wet his cheeks until one tickled its way across his top lip.

*

A flame seared through the air, yanking a scream from Steve's lungs and leaving behind third degree burns along his right shoulder and down his bicep. He side-stepped out of the flames and whipped the shield into position to catch the next stream and reflect it back at not one, not two, but three Goddamn dragons stomping through Kentucky.

Scientists had disturbed a nest of eggs hidden deep within the tunnels of Mammoth Cave. The eggs had subsequently hatched while being studied in Western Kentucky University, leading to three beasts straight out of Game of Thrones terrorizing the locals.

They were only the size of horses, but that was Goddamn big enough as far as Steve was concerned. He pivoted and rolled beneath one of the creature's legs.

“Look, all I'm saying is you don't find out dragons are real and turn around and kill them,” Clint bitched through their communication devices.

“What the Hell do you want us to do with them, then?” Rhodey snapped, relatively safe inside his War Machine armor. “Let 'em wander around Bowling Green eating people and setting shit on fire?”

“There's gotta be a way to sedate them, right? If we sedate them and move them to a protected habitat? Come on. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, guys. Nat, back me up here.”

Hulk sailed over their heads, letting out a mighty roar as he landed between the dragons and the rest of the Avengers. He planted each foot, straightened his shoulders, and bellowed a challenge.

The dragons suddenly stopped their attack and hunkered down onto their bellies in a submissive position. Hulk didn't look like he knew what to make of that and glanced over a green shoulder in Steve's direction.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve spat. He ached all over. His head hurt. He was singed and covered in soot. He wanted to be with Bucky; Doctor García was supposed to start the stem cell transplant with Steve's donated stem cells today. The last thing he needed was baby dragons, dead civilians, and half his team bickering over whether or not they should kill the infants.

“Gimme a workable suggestion, guys,” he said.

Thor said, “We have creatures like this in the Nine Realms. Perhaps we can isolate them for now while I determine if they can be transplanted to a location more suitable for them.”

“They seem to like Hulk,” Nat pointed out.

Steve returned his attention to Hulk, who now sat amongst the infants. The red dragon had its head in Hulk's lap. The blue one was curled around him like a life ring. Even the yellow on, the most aggressive clamored for Hulk's attention.

“Okay. This is what we're going to do...”

Hulk and the dragons were loaded onto an ocean-going cargo ship on their way to a bird sanctuary off the coast of Scotland. Leave it to the Scots to volunteer for Project Dragon Babies. Thor, meanwhile, took the Bifrost back to Asgard to begin searching for an appropriate home.

And Steve?

Steve didn't even stop to change or see the doctor before rushing off to the hospital. Jubilee and Anjali greeted him outside surgery with Jubilee taking one look at him and hustling him off to the nursing station. They let him use their facilities to shower, and someone volunteered a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for him to change into.

Freshly washed, dressed, and being fussed over by Chleo, he returned in time for Bucky to be wheeled out of recovery and toward the in-hospital room he would stay in until being released.

He was made to sit down once inside the room so Chleo could inspect and dress the burns on his body despite his insistence his injuries would heal in no time.

“Just because you heal fast doesn't mean you don't hurt,” she snapped with hands on hips.

It startled him enough that he stopped fighting with her.

Bucky was groggy from the anesthesia most of the morning, and when he wasn't fighting to stay awake, he insisted no one look at him. He'd become very self-conscious about his appearance over the past month. The regular chemo schedule and lack of activity had left him thin and pale, but he seemed most concerned about his hair. He hadn't lost it in a uniform pattern and was left with thin tufts.

“Hey, stop,” he said after returning from a trip to the cafeteria to find Bucky with his head buried beneath the blankets. “That's enough feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

Bucky lowered the blanket enough for his eyes to peek out. “No, I don't. How can you stand looking at me? You're so...everything, and I'm so not.”

“My mother weighed eighty pounds by the time she died. I could count her ribs. Her bones were like shark fins breaking the water. Should I have turned my back on her because she didn't look her best?”

“No, but--”

“Shut up,” he said as gently as possible. He pulled his stool closer and smoothed a palm over Bucky's head. “I don't love you because you're beautiful, and you are no matter how much you deny it. I love you because I'm yours. You saw me when everyone else only saw Captain America.”

Bucky stilled. “What did you say?”

“You saw me when--”

“Not that part. You said you love me.”

“That's like saying the sun is necessary for life on Earth.”

The last thing he expected was for Bucky to burst into tears and refuse to allow Steve anywhere near in order to comfort him. That was not the reaction anyone wanted when they finally admitted the depths of their feelings. Really, he should have known better. Bucky could be like a bramble when it came to emotions. Either he pricked to protect himself or he tore at flesh to keep Steve from leaving.

Their relationship continued to be a roller coaster, so he padded from the room to give Bucky some space when asked to leave and leaned against the wall outside.

“Told him you loved him, didn't you,” Jubilee commented.

He glanced up and nodded.

“Yeah, he did the same thing when I first said it. It's not easy being close to him. Why isn't really my story to tell, but it gets better. He just needs time to come to terms with strong emotions.”

“I'm glad he has you.”

Jubilee just touched his arm, and when she opened hers, he allowed himself to sink into the embrace.

Things didn't improve the next day, not after some asshole posted a picture on Twitter of Steve helping Bucky inside the hospital for one of his infusions. Bucky looked worn thin in the photo, and celebrity gossip sites had a field day making up reasons that Steve might be in public with another man.

Obviously, they jumped right to the conclusion they were dating, because people couldn't be seen in public with other people without being accused of dating. It was fine. They could make whatever assumptions they wanted. Steve wasn't trying to hide his relationship with Bucky.

Bucky, on the other hand...

He walked in on a tornado with Bucky sitting up in bed yelling at the television and Anjali attempting to calm him down enough to lie back. He was having none of it.

“What's it matter if they know?” she shouted over him.

“If they know I love him, they'll use me against him!”

Steve stilled, his back pressed against the wall outside Bucky's room. His heart skipped a couple of beats. He forgot the throbbing pain and itch as his burned arm healed itself. Nothing mattered but those words, the three words that lodged deep in Steve's chest and made him gulp air.

“Bucky,” Anjali cooed. “Love, some risks are worth taking. You haven't taken a risk like this in your whole life, and I get it. You had so much upheaval during your youth you don't think you can possibly bear to lose control again, but love, you can. You're so strong.”

“I am not,” he muttered.

“You have survived. Love, you've survived.”

“I'm falling in love with him.”

“And it can be the happiest time of your life if you'll allow it. All you must do is get on the ride.”

He wiped away stray moisture in his eyes and stepped inside the room carrying a bouquet of daisies and a bag of take out from Bucky's favorite bistro.

Bucky smiled timidly and held out his hand.

Steve went to him.

They decided that night to acknowledge their relationship to the press, so Pepper gleefully arranged a press conference. There were no questions, and he released a simple statement.

“Bucky Barnes and I are in a committed relationship. He's presently undergoing treatments for leukemia, so we ask that the news media and paparazzi respect our privacy.

“Let me make one thing clear, my relationship is not for public consumption. I understand people are curious, but we owe you no explanations. All the public speculation that has been rampant since those photos went public is unseemly and does not do justice to the American public.

“Also, my partner's health and privacy are extremely important to me. If anyone attempts to contact him, sneaks photographs, or otherwise violates his privacy, they will answer to me. That is all.”

That afternoon, #capisdisappointedinyou was trending on the internet.

The following day, the United States fell in love with Bucky Barnes and Captain America, barring the vocal minority who screamed that God would punish the US for its perversion. Fox News aired a segment condemning Captain America and calling for his resignation. He fired back by demanding that if they thought they could do his job, he was more than willing to give them the chance.

No one took him up on the offer.

Nick Fury just about had an aneurism but relented when Steve threatened to cut ties entirely with S.H.I.E.L.D if he didn't back off. In the end, S.H.I.E.L.D needed him much more than he needed them, and Director Fury knew that. He admitted as much on a segment on 60 Minutes devoted to exploring the symbol that was Captain America.

“Captain America is a paragon of freedom, and let me tell you, anyone who labors under the misapprehension that he's a shill for the military who knuckles down and follows orders is misinformed. He's a good man who stands up for his principles. We need more of him in this shitty political atmosphere.”

Bucky was released from the hospital after a week to recover at home, and Steve basically moved in with him, staying most nights on the sofa and taking a medical leave of absence from the Avengers. Things were good. They looked hopeful. Until they didn't.

He came home from grocery shopping one afternoon to find Bucky on his bedroom floor in a pool of his own vomit. Steve dropped everything and crouched to feel for a pulse. It was there but weak. Doctor García had warned them about the chance for rejection, a chance that was even higher than normal given Steve's stem cells might contain effects from the serum.

Military training was the only reason he didn't panic. He called 911 and moved Bucky out of his own filth to prevent him from aspirating on vomit. Steve had only been gone fifteen minutes! They'd both figured fifteen minutes wouldn't be dangerous.

Fighting tears, he pulled Bucky into his arms and rocked him.

“It's fine. You're going to be all right, sweetheart. Just keep fighting, okay? Keep fighting.”

Letting the EMTs take Bucky from him was difficult, but they allowed him to ride in the ambulance with them, so he was right there when Bucky regained consciousness. Bucky smiled at him despite the oxygen mask. Their fingers touched. Steve couldn't resist the urge to lace them together.

Once at the hospital, they were separated, with Steve being left in the waiting room while triage took Bucky back in the hopes of stabilizing him. Doctor García and Chleo both arrived shortly afterward.

Chaos died down and left him in silence. He sat. He burrowed fingers into his hair. For the first time since his mother died, he prayed. A chaplain making rounds noticed him and sat with Steve, allowing him to use his rosary. The beads felt familiar sliding through his fingers.

The clock ticked.

People came and went.

The chaplain let him keep the rosary.

The clock continued ticking.

Weight settled into a chair beside him, and he glanced over to find Tony, who didn't say anything, just offered Steve a handkerchief that he gladly accepted to wipe his eyes and nose. When the heaviness of his head became too much, he leaned it against Tony's shoulder.

And the clock ticked.

People came and went.

A soft hand slid into his as Natasha came to sit on his other side. She murmured something soothing in Russian, her hand squeezing his every now and then. Her other hand rubbed up and down his thigh.

A doctor emerged from the ER and called out for the Nowicki family.

The clock ticked.

An ambulance screamed into the ambulance bay.

And the clock ticked.

Pepper arrived and draped a cardigan around his shoulders that smelled like her perfume. Clint brought coffee for everyone. Bruce sat at Steve's feet and prayed with him. Thor told them stories that kept the entire waiting room entertained. Tony continued stroking a hand up and down his back.

A clock ticked.

People came and went.

Jubilee and Anjali arrived, exclaiming about not arriving sooner. Something about fighting through a crowd gathered outside the emergency room entrance. Police had arrived and were making efforts to control the growing throng. Honestly, who in their right mind knowingly blocked off an ER entrance?

And the clock ticked.

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve's head jerked up to find Doctor García standing at the entrance to the waiting room. He flew to his feet and damn near tripped over Bruce in his haste to move closer.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Stable.”

Hearing that allowed his shoulders to slump in either relief or the sheer inability of his super-soldier muscles to hold up his weight. “When can we see him?”

“Don't misunderstand me. Bucky is very sick right now. His body is trying to reject the transplant. We've given him medication to lower his immune system which means it's critical he's not exposed to outside germs. If he develops an infection of any kind, it could kill him in his delicate state.”

“What happens if he rejects the transplant?”

“If he doesn't succumb to GVHD, he'll need another round of chemotherapy and a new transplant.”

“Can we get checked?” asked Pepper. “To see if we're matches?”

“We'll all get checked,” volunteered Clint.

For whatever reason, that was the hill on which his emotions decided to die. He started crying and couldn't stop. Their overwhelming generosity humbled him. None of them were obligated to help, but they'd become family since the invasion, and family stepped up in times of need.

*

Something had taken up residence in his mouth and decided to die. Bucky's sight was blurry when he opened his eyes. He knew immediately he was in the ICU and could vaguely remember Steve coming home to find him on the floor. Then there had been an ambulance, too many voices, a leprechaun offering him the bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow, and Steve's hand on his.

Things got confusing after that.

So. First observation. He was still alive. His mouth wouldn't taste like the ass end of a dying hippopotamus if he were already dead because that wouldn't be fair. Also, a big bouquet of bright red poppies decorated the window ledge. Only his sister knew they were his favorite flowers.

He made a noise that caused a mountain of Steve to shift nearby. Moments later, those blue, blue eyes regarded him with something like hope or desperation, and Bucky lifted his hand to caress the heavy stubble on Steve's cheeks. He rubbed his thumb back and forth against the bristles.

“Was wrong. You don't look like Grizzly Adams with a beard.”

Steve huffed. “It's so good to see you awake.”

“How long?”

“Six days. You were in a medically induced coma. Your kidneys tried to shut down. They carted Jubilee off yesterday. She was starting to form a crust.”

Steve lifted Bucky's hand to his mouth and kissed it, and that was the only reason he felt Steve's lips trembling and understood how close to the edge of tears he was.

“Hey, come on. Don't cry, Stevie. 'M still here.”

His big, hunky boyfriend couldn't seem to get hold of himself, so Bucky shifted enough to pull Steve partially onto the bed with him, enough that Steve could duck his head beneath Bucky's chin. He smoothed his hand down his boyfriend's back in soothing strokes.

Cancer fucking sucked, he mused. It was bad enough on the people who contracted it. It was just as difficult for the people who loved them. Watching someone struggle and being unable to help had probably left Steve feeling powerless and stressed out.

So he hummed and allowed Steve to cry and suddenly realized how momentous this thing between them was. They loved each other. Steve would grieve if he died. He might even be devastated. So he tightened his arm and sang “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” into his boyfriend's scalp the same way his mother had once done for him.

Things improved from there. Once his immune system was no longer fighting Steve's stem cells, they finally had a chance to do their job. After they got started, his recovery seemed to speed up. Doctor García said he hadn't seen anything like it before and postulated that traces of the super soldier serum had carried over into Bucky's blood stream from the transplant.

No one told the scientific community.

He was released from the hospital after two weeks, but instead of going back to the apartment he shared with Jubilee, he went back to Steve's house. It was simple, really. Reporters were camped outside the apartment hoping to get glimpses of him, so he outsmarted them, glad to give Jubilee and Anjali privacy from the horde of vultures.

Steve's place was nice. It was a three story brownstone in a nice neighborhood. The older couple who lived on one side brought them baked goods. A hipster family on the other invited them to a nearby festival that Steve insisted on dressing Bucky warmly for, full coat, hat, and scarf.

They wandered around listening to various musical groups and sampling food from Brooklyn eateries. Bucky bought Steve a small, framed ink drawing of a human skeleton reclining next to a pond. Steve liked those sorts of things, had filled his home with Gothic art and old anatomy drawings. Bucky's favorite piece was a diorama including an articulated mouse skeleton sitting in a rocking chair while ghosts hovered in the windows of its miniature home.

A month later, Doctor García called him in for another consult and pronounced him cancer free. That old pessimism was still alive. He'd likely never completely lose it, so part of him doubted whether the diagnosis would last. Still, he contented himself with living in the moment, and that meant enjoying his budding relationship with Steve and creating a home together.

They finished refurbishing the living room and celebrated by inviting their friends over for dinner. Darcy got on fabulously with Jubilee. Turned out that Tony was a closet freak when it came to dinosaurs, so the three of them had their heads together most of the night with Tony volunteering to fund an excavation team so long as Jubilee served as lead archaeologist.

Bucky and Pepper struck up a fast friendship, bonding over their shared love of shoes. Alas, his job didn't pay enough for him to indulge in his desires, but a week after their dinner party, he received a package containing a pair of Tom Ford alligator boots that made him swoon. Steve came trundling down the stairs from where he was working on finishing the office to find him cuddling said boots on the sofa and babbling like he'd lost his mind.

But the night of the party, Pepper showed him something that left him speechless. A newspaper displayed on her tablet, the one that had been officially released, celebrated Bucky's release from the hospital and suggested media might be hearing wedding bells from Camp Avengers soon.

It had him in stitches. He was so not ready to get married. Baby steps, he reassured himself.

She pulled up a second version of the same paper set to be released if Bucky had died. The headline read “A Nation Mourns” and displayed a photo of a model in shadow standing beside a grave stone. It was macabre, but he also found it touching, that a whole country had been invested in his survival.

It was nice to see people rooting nationwide for a same-sex couple. The best part? Positive news media had silenced Fox News and other conservative outlets. So what if Captain America was gay and in a loving relationship with another man, they announced. They were happy.

Apparently even religious conservatives thought better of celebrating the possible death of a cancer survivor, and that was nice to hear.


	8. No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Steve and Bucky get their happy ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from the song "Work Song" by Hozier.
> 
> UPDATE: I edited the last bit of this chapter to include some suggestions from a couple of comments, so it now has a brand new ending.

_8 months later_

“Thank you for calling Superhuman Disaster Insurance; this is Bucky Barnes speaking. Please hold.” Bucky punched the button on his desk phone and griped, “Can I get a bigger chair, She Who Will Not Be Named? My ass doesn't fit in this one!”

“Barnes, I'm busy!” If by busy, she meant being a total boss and planning her acceptance speech for being the breakout businesswoman of the year. 

Snickering, he situated himself in a more comfortable position. His difficulties didn't stem from being overweight. Sure, he'd gotten pretty squishy in the months following his remission diagnosis, but that had since turned into rock hard muscle. S'what happened when a body developed symptoms of the super soldier serum because his boyfriend's stem cells flooded him.

He returned to his call. “Sorry about the wait. How can I help you today?”

“You're not answering your cell phone,” Steve grumbled through their connection, “and we're supposed to be at the prison in about forty-five minutes.”

Instant panic. He could not be late, not today, not on Becca's special day. “Crap!” he exclaimed while grabbing his messenger bag and capping the coffee he'd just poured from the break room. “Wait, are you outside the building?”

“Didn't I say I was gonna pick you up?”

“Sugar pie, you don't have a car. You realize we can't take your motorcycle, right? I mean, not that your Harley isn't great. It's fantastic. The way the engine rumbles between our legs, and I'm pressed right up against your back--”

Steve chuckled. “I borrowed Rhodey's Range Rover. We need to have it back by this evening, so get a move on it, sweetheart. We don't wanna be late.”

“Right. I'll be there in, like, two minutes. Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way.”

In his flailing, he damn near sent the picture of Jubilee wearing a lemony sundress poised on the corner of his desk flying. He saved it from certain death and pressed a kiss to it. Working at the office while she was out in Montana on an excavation site still felt like a piece of him was missing.

He shouted his early departure while galloping past Ms. Shapandar's office, but her only response was to bellow for him to slow the Hell down before he tripped and filed for workman's comp.

He did not trip. Bucky was graceful as a swan.

Instead, he walked into the elevator door jamb and narrowly avoided spilling hot coffee all down his chest. Richard could be heard cackling from a break room that had been turned into wedding central. Not Bucky's. God no. He still wasn't ready for marriage. No, Richard had asked Abeeha from accounting about six months ago, and the two were in the middle of planning the second most anticipated wedding of Superhuman Disaster Insurance. There was still a running bet as to when Bucky would announce his nuptials. Not gonna happen, people.

“I did it deliberately,” Bucky shouted in response to Richard.

He absolutely had not done it deliberately.

Acclimating to the new size and strength of his body was an ongoing process. Last week, he hadn't been able to hold a pencil without snapping it in half. Not to mention the disastrous incident with a carton of eggs and their kitchen floor. So it wasn't entirely his fault he couldn't waltz like a gazelle or spring like an antelope. Anjali liked to compare him to a hippopotamus: awkward on land but a swan on water. Which was a complete exaggeration. Hippos were perfectly capable killers on land.

His breathing was perfectly even, and he hadn't broken a sweat by the time he burst from inside the building and sprinted toward Steve. Steve, who leaned casually against the Range Rover's front fender, somehow got impossibly hotter with each day. He found himself caught and swept into a quick embrace before both men climbed inside and Steve put the truck in gear.

Bucky smiled like a loon and caught his boyfriend's hand that wasn't holding the wheel. He laced their fingers together. Such casual affection was becoming easier for Bucky, and he lifted Steve's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each pink scar where Crimson's Cowl's thread had been removed. The process of removing them—Steve's super serum had tried to calcify each thread to the bone—had taken over a month but had finally been completed.

The drive to Bedford Hills was familiar, and when they arrived, a bunch of reporters and paparazzi awaited them. Because he couldn't date Captain America without news media knowing all about his family. He absolutely did not dare read commentary on his sister's incarceration lest he blow his top in a spectacular fashion.

As they exited their vehicle, someone shouted his name. He glanced up to find a man holding a handwritten sign that read “Thanks for paying for my car to be fixed. You're aces!”

Bucky waved to Sam Patel, a mega-watt smile on his face.

By the time they made it through security, the graduates of the inaugural dog training class were already lined up in the small exercise yard devoted to their program. Their dogs, a kaleidoscope of various breeds, sat beside their feet. 

All except one. Maggie Barnes was much too excited to sit still. Rather, she wound herself and her leash around Becca despite every attempt to calm the pooch.

Then the ceremony started, and Maggie took it as a sign they were up to some serious business and finally settled into position. Becca stood with new pride squaring her shoulders. She didn't just look good. For the first time in her life, she looked proud. Seeing it made Bucky's cheeks ache from grinning. His sister, who'd had a rough start, had finally found something she was good at besides breaking the law, doing drugs, and killing.

He nudged Steve and pointed Becca and Maggie out as the organizer called names for inmates to come forward and receive their certificate. Naturally, Maggie tired of sitting still. That was when her entire backside started waggling. Not just her docked tale. Boy, the righteous indignation he'd suffered through about the heartlessness of humans when it came to modifying animals to suit a human aesthetic. He agreed wholeheartedly, but it had been the first time Becca had fought for a cause.

Then Becca and Maggie's names were called, and Maggie leaped from her sit/stay position to jump excitedly, much to the delight of the audience. Said audience cooed as the dog's enthusiasm turned to heartbreak when the organizer failed to hand over treats with the piece of paper.

That's my sister, he thought to himself. They'd been separated much of their lives, shipped off to different foster families, separated by Becca's involvement in the Maggia, forced apart by a life sentence to be served in a maximum security prison. But to share that moment with her, the one moment she got to feel proud of herself, made him forget the long years of struggle.

So he was proud and dared anyone say a bad word about Becca to their family. 

After the ceremony, they were invited to mingle with the prisoners and meet their dogs. He finally got to introduce Steve to Becca in person. Maggie, of course, thought it was grand fun and damn near knocked Bucky on his ass when he crouched to give her some loving.

“Gonna miss this sweet thing,” Becca said, a touch of sadness in her voice. “Can't think of better people for looking after her, though. You'll take good care of my brother and my baby girl, right?” She lifted her glance to Steve. “You look me in the eye and tell me you got their backs.”

“I got their backs.”

Their gazes locked for a moment while they sized each other up. In the end, Becca nodded and punched Steve's arm hard enough he swayed on his feet.

“Ouch!” he yelped. “What was that for?”

“Barnes family tradition.”

“Your family greets each other by punching them? That explains a lot.”

Bucky laughed. “I'll tell you later.”

The next couple of hours were spent having refreshments and mingling with the rest of Becca's class, but at the end of the day, Becca came forward to clip Maggie's leash to her collar. There were tears in her eyes. Crouching, she pressed their noses together, dog and human, and shared an intimate moment. 

“You be a good girl for Uncle Bucky, okay? Do like I taught you and don't be making no trouble for them, sassy pants? Fuck, I'm gonna miss you, but next month, I'll get a new dog to help just like I helped you. Teach 'em how to be good so they get a forever home just like you.”

Maggie's only response was to softly woof and lap at Becca's cheeks.

Wiping the emotion from her face, she rose and pushed the leash into Bucky's hand before stepping in to hug him. “Take of my girl, okay? Take care of yourself, too.”

“I'll bring lots of pictures next time I come to visit, okay?”

Nodding, she turned and hurried to catch up with the guard calling the women back into formation.

Bucky watched her go, and sure, there was a bittersweet ache in his chest. They could never have a normal relationship, but now he had a part of Becca standing beside him.

Maggie cocked her head, clearly confused about the turn of events. She tugged at the leash in an effort to follow Becca but was quickly distracted when Steve crouched and played with her squeaky ball.

Outside the facility, their new dog jumped into the back of the Range Rover, sniffed around, and flopped onto the carpet. Bucky fussed over her for a few minutes. He gave her a bone to chew on and a blanket to snuggle down in, both ignored in favor of smelling her new environment.

“She'll be okay, right?” he asked Steve.

“Sure. She'll be sad, but we're going to love her no matter what, and eventually, she'll become accustomed to life with us. Especially when we introduce her to Lucky and Princess Bratwurst.”

“Princess Bratwurst...”

“Pepper's dachshund. Tony named her.”

“Of course he did.”

 

 

They didn't go straight home. Maggie decided she didn't like riding in the truck and threw up all over the nice, clean carpet. They made a pit stop at the Tower to allow her to calm down and clean up the mess she'd made. Unfortunately, Rhodey happened to be coming back from a meeting.

“Ah Hell. Really, Cap? Dog vomit?”

“Don't worry. We'll get this professionally shampooed for you. You'll never even notice.”

“Try to do a guy a solid, and what do you get in return? Dog vomit. All over your upholstery. You know how long that's gonna smell, Cap? You owe me. Big time.”

“Anything you want.”

“Fine, you're watching Suzette when Marie and I need a night out.”

“Anything but baby sitting.”

Bucky cracked up. His laughter joined them on the elevator as they made their way to the common floor of Avengers Tower to introduce their four-legged baby to the rest of the Avengers. Lucky, Clint's golden lab, took immediate interest. Maggie startled. She hid behind Bucky, flattening herself into a submissive posture while Lucky sniffed and wagged his tail.

It wasn't until Lucky brought over his favorite ball and dropped it in front of Maggie that the pooch finally got brave enough to come from behind Bucky to play with her new friend. Of course, that brought Princess Bratwurst from hiding, her nails scrabbling against the stone tiles of the floor as she raced from Tony's lab into the common room.

“Everyone, we have an announcement to make,” called Steve.

“Aren't you supposed to invite the godfather when you adopt?” asked Tony as he wandered in from the lab, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “This is a thing, right, Brucie? People invite the godfather for the Christening all the time.” He crouched down and baby-talked at Maggie, who promptly knocked him on his backside in order to lavish him with attention that involved her pink tongue and his face.

Bruce laughed until he couldn't breathe.

Clint and Natasha arrived a few minutes later, both wandering in from the gym. Thor crowed in delight, at which point, he dropped onto all fours to play with the canine Avengers. Something about a proud tradition of hunting hounds on Asgard.

And Bucky? Bucky couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

“So, this announcement?” prompted Bruce.

Maria stepped up to the plate, tablet perched in the crook of her arm, and said, “Steve and I have discussed this at length, and we're opening a new division in the Avengers organization. It will deal with risk assessment and urban combat training.”

“There have been too many accidents when we're on the field,” Steve continued, “accidents that have devastating consequences for the surrounding community, so from now on, we'll be running training simulations to cut down our ratio of acceptable loss.”

“Mr. Barnes will be heading up the department,” Maria concluded.

Bucky, hands stuffed into pockets, stepped up beside them. “Not that I've got a lot of expertise in fighting, but apparently they think I'm pretty good at risk assessment with my background in the insurance industry. Don't worry. I'll definitely be a cruel taskmaster.”

Tony cocked his hip against the kitchen island. “Huh. Well, I guess if you'll be taking part in our training simulations you'll be needing a new arm. Good thing I've got just the prototype in mind.”

Wait. What?

Steve went off with Nat to continue their friendly rivalry over a game of Mario Kart. Pepper joined them by coming up from her office. Clint and Bruce gathered around the coffee table with a pot of tea like they hadn't just made a major announcement. Like they accepted him just like that.

He wasn't given a lot of time to absorb that information before Tony approached to guide him toward the lab, and Bucky shot a glance over his shoulder to ensure Maggie was absorbed with Lucky and Princess Bratwurst before following.

And wow, he'd never been in a high tech lab before, but he kept up with Tony's babble about a metal prosthetic that would wire directly into his brain, allowing the device to respond seamlessly with his brain's commands. There was also something about making beautiful music together. Which? Ugh. So not a musician. And? Ouch. Should he trust Tony when it came to his brain?

*

Something crashed downstairs in the living room. It was followed by Steve cursing, and before long, Maggie came tearing upstairs into the bedroom to hide behind Bucky. He patted her head and felt not the least bit sorry for whatever mess Steve was cleaning up thanks to their furry child.

He pressed record.

_“Hi, everybody._

__

__

_“Today was my last day at Superhuman Disaster Insurance. It's like an era coming to an end, you know. That company is one of the best I've ever worked for, and I'm sure Ms. Shapandar and all the employees there will go on to do great things when it comes to the insurance industry._

_“But I'm getting a promotion._

_“Now, I know there are a lot more of you listening out there now. Dating Steve Rogers is one thing. Dating Captain America and having the whole country focusing on you means this little podcast of mine took a huge jump in listeners. So welcome everyone who's new and welcome back everyone who's been a long-time listener._

_“Back to the promotion. So I've been hired by the Avengers Initiative to help them spot and eradicate incidental deaths and property damage while they're avenging. So cool, right? Look, I'm just one guy, and no one can predict everything that happens on a battlefield, but at least they're trying._

_“Wow, listen to me sing a different tune. Guess that's what happens when you're a recovering pessimist. Anyhow, I start my new job Monday, but don't worry. Bucky Barnes' New York Minute isn't going anywhere. I intend to continue podcasting and continue being critical of superhuman vigilantes because they need us in the background telling them what our communities need, right?_

_“But from now on, I want to hear more from you guys. Tell me what your communities need. Tell me how you think superhumans can be better citizens. Let me know when you think they're doing something wrong. It's not going to take one man do do this job; it'll take all of you, but that's what's so great about this community we've built together._

_“And no, chickenbreast139, I will not use my influence with Captain America to get your in bed with Black Widow. Shame on you for being a jerk. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul._

_“Tell me what you think._

_“You've been listening to Bucky Barnes' New York Minute.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the wonderful support this has received! All the comments and kudos have really meant a great deal to me. And thank you to my wonderful artist and all around great human being, The_She_Devil for the amazing artwork. Collaborating with The_She_Devil has been incredible!

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit with me at [MarleyMortis](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


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